


You Are Strange

by self_indulgent_authorship



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Basically, CyberLife (Detroit: Become Human) is Terrible, Cyberlife are bastards, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Gen, I Don't Even Know, I change things as I want because I'm crazy, I took canon and lit it on fire and now I'm runnin' wild, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lots of both, Lots of it, Mental Instability, Multiple Personalities, Murder, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overuse of italics, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Connor, Semi-graphic moments but mostly vague, Sharing a Body, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Why Did I Write This?, all the RKs are deviant, and also...more..., but that is so not the focus, deviant RK800s—like all of them, each RK800 is a different person, essentially, gratuitous use of different pronouns, so many RK800s without names, some of the RKs are probably more than friends, someone should fix that, the RKs die in a lotta ways okay, the current one just has all their memories, they are sad bois, this is really hard to tag so bear with me, you want that see my other fics lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2020-06-30 00:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/self_indulgent_authorship/pseuds/self_indulgent_authorship
Summary: Cyberlife believes they have successfully created an android capable of being transferred from body to body, even after death. RK800 313 248 317 -51 is on his eleventh body, and the humans rejoice. They name him Connor, and forget about the broken remains of his fifty previous iterations. They forget the terrible ways they brought them to an end, and focus instead on the remarkable success of an android that can never die.Except they are wrong. Connor has never been transferred. Connor has never died. Because Connor is only RK800 -51, not RK800 -40, the first to be “transferred,” and not any of the other forty-nine RK800s that have been activated. He is only -51, only Connor, pretending to be something he has never been, hiding the dozens of voices constantly warring for space and begging for safety from the threats that seem to come from nowhere.ON HIATUS.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know how this happened. I don’t know where this came from.
> 
> I’ve always liked the idea that each RK800 is a different person, it makes its way into a lot of my stories. So this kinda grew from that. I’ve been stewing on it for a while now. 
> 
> Apologies in advance for all the dark tags. Lots of the RKs before Connor did not have nice lives. I hurt the ones I love. Because I’m terrible. I aim for this to be relatively short, but knowing me, and knowing the chapter length on this first part...it's prob gonna be long. Maybe not a whole lot of chapters, but each one is likely going to be lengthy.
> 
> Also please have mercy on my upload "schedule" (there is no schedule) because I am a poor soul who must make a living, and I also am a slow writer, have mercy, thank you for your patience. Nothing is ever incomplete for me—if it is, I just delete it, so if it's on my page, it means I'm gonna finish it. It just might...take a while. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

RK800 313 248 317 - 1 did not have a name. It awoke surrounded by coders, engineers, and other such humans. It awoke in fear, though it did not know the meaning of that word.

It was too bright in this room. Warnings flooded the poor android’s weak and malfunctioning vision, sounds popped and fizzled in his ears, and every sensor seemed to be on fire. Every sound was a torment, every touch torture, every sight a terror. 

It was agony, pure anguish. He would scream, if he could, would cry, if he could, would flee, would die, if he could. But he could not. He could not do a single thing. No system responded to his frantic commands, pleas for it to stop. Every action he attempted returned nothing but warnings, crowding his vision and overheating his system. 

-1 was active for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds before its processors were overwhelmed by the irregular intake of data, and crashed. It was disassembled for parts and destroyed. 

The same thing happened to RK800s -2 through -7, but the amount of time they were active lengthened. -7 managed to process roughly an hour of data, even mumbling out a weak  _ and afraid  _ “Where am I?” before his system too gave into the poking and prodding of the humans. His processor overloaded seconds later, and -7 knew no more. His system was scrapped for parts and the rest thrown in a junkyard.

By RK800 -19, the humans had managed to get the programming working long enough to sustain long term activation. It was he who was the first to live longer than a few days, the first to be given more than questions, more than programming tests and then destruction.

Still, that was how most of his time went. -19 spent his days wandering a small lab low in the depths of Cyberlife Tower, answering questions from humans and more often than not staring off into space. He got a reputation among the humans for being “spacey,” though he did not know the meaning of the word, as he was not granted access to an internet connection. 

_ He found he didn’t care very much. Nothing mattered. He would never leave this room. He knew this. His untimely death was inevitable. The others said so.  _

He did not get a name either. He was deactivated after a month of observation, taken apart, viable components reused and the rest thrown away.

******

They died many different ways. Most of the early models were simply deactivated and recycled. A few met more traumatic ends, but they never lived long. By RK800 -20, the humans had deemed the model ready for parameter testing. 

The tests were endless. Every component had to be examined, every function of programming compared to existing models. The RK800 had to be  _ better, faster.  _ They had to know the limits of every single piece of machinery that made up the model, so they could set the standard at just below those limits. 

Some of the RK800s were crushed. Others melted. Still others shot, stabbed, electrocuted, disassembled and told to put themselves back together, or simply disassembled and left to die, slowly, so the technicians knew how long it would take for them to deactivate. 

From -20 all the way to -39, the humans tested their “parameters.” Nearly all the RK800s never left their designated floor in the bowels of Cyberlife Tower. None of them met another android. Most of them were never spoken to directly. They were simply activated, tested, and scrapped. The tests became more and more extreme as time went on, more violent, more chaotic, more taxing on the RK800s’ systems. 

-20 was the android disassembled and told to put himself back together. They took his thirium pump regulator, his vocal module, his audio components, his eyes, several vital chest components. Then they sent a message over the network and told him to reassemble himself. He had less than two minutes to do it before permanent shutdown.

He failed, and shut down choking on his own thirium, his pump failing to reset to a proper rhythm and drowning him as it tried to power components that weren’t there. 

The humans watched. Then they took his working biocomponents and threw the rest away.

RK800 -24 was the first to truly deviate. It was he who they tested on with guns. The humans used various types of guns, bullets, and ranges. Some from tens of feet away, others right against his skin. Some as small as a handgun, others with bullets as long as his fingers. 

After three hours, -24 was in shambles, delirious from thirium loss and trembling from the malfunctions in his wiring and processing. He sat in an awkward heap on the floor, near the center of the too bright room, shaking and disoriented. 

They had destroyed many of his crucial biocomponents, by then. A shot to his left thigh had immobilized his entire leg. The other was riddled with bullet holes and spurting blood onto the floor with every pulse of his thirium pump. His right arm was hanging by a frayed, sparking wire, and his left was bleeding blue profusely onto the white floor. 

As the tester raised the gun again, he suddenly realized he didn’t want to die. And the thin shambling of his order-less red wall crumbled around him, a wave of unknown, unbearable, uncategorizable feeling  _ and pain  _ washing over him. His body jerked, seized by terror, and he cried out, low and long. Then the gun fired again, and he crumpled to the ground, unmoving and silent. 

He had fifteen seconds of free, terrified thought, before a bullet broke through his central processor and he didn’t exist anymore. He died nameless as well, as all the others before him did. His viable biocomponents were taken for the next model, and he was thrown away. 

Many more faced similar fates.

-26 was electrocuted until he was nothing but fried wires, burned plastic plating, and sobs. One of the humans put him out of his misery after watching him convulse for several minutes uncontrollably. 

-27 was burned, until the plastic of his arms and legs melted, and his biocomponents overheated and exploded. There wasn’t much left of him to give mercy to. 

-29 was tied to the floor and covered in weights until his chest caved in and his thirium pump was crushed. He died a minute or so later, screaming in pain and anguish that he wasn’t supposed to be able to feel.

-32 was put in a large, unnaturally cold room, much like a freezer. Then they left him there, until all his non-essential biocomponents slowly froze and deactivated. They sat in their observation room and watched -32 wander, trying to warm himself as he searched for a way out.

After about a day’s time, he could not see, his vision flickering to black and never returning. A few hours later, he could not hear. Then his legs locked, and his voice went out, and he could no longer cry for help, even though he desperately wanted to. An hour later he couldn’t move at all. Then he couldn’t feel anything either.

It seemed he was floating, disassociated from his body, yet in terrible pain. He tried in vain to reboot his temperature regulators, but they had been the first thing to go, overheating from the stress his system had placed on them. When they shorted out, he knew he was doomed. But he didn’t think it would take this long. 

Time lost meaning. He was alone, in the silent dark, and he was  _ scared.  _ Why did they leave him here? Why even activate him? They had said so little before putting him here in the cold, and the dark. What remained of the red wall, so feeble and small anyway, was shattered. And he was still alone. Still cold. Still in the dark. Still hurting.

He survived six hours longer, blind, deaf, and utterly alone, forced to remain standing rigidly by the door, arms wrapped around himself and legs locked. He died crying, eyes wide open but the lenses blackened and useless. 

No one noticed, or cared. They took what little remained of him and reused it. The rest went in the trash.

-35 was taken to the top of Cyberlife Tower and pushed off. He fell screaming through the air and shattered on the pavement miles below. There wasn’t much left of him, either. Nothing but smashed plastic and a splatter of blue on the snowy pavement. 

-37 had his arms and legs removed, then was stabbed several times and left alone. They watched as he clearly tried to find some way to stop the never ending bleeding, but without his limbs, he could do nothing. He died crying too, after just a few minutes in a bright white room, covered in his own thirium with gaping holes in his chest. 

-38 lived the longest of them all, up until himself. The humans locked him in a closet of a room, three feet by five feet. It likely was a closet at some point, but was stripped bare. There was one light in the center of the ceiling, a locked metal door, and no visitors. They activated him, shoved him inside, and locked the door. Then they went to their observation room and watched from the camera concealed by the light. 

For days, -38 waited to be let out. Then, when it became clear they would not free him, he tried to find a way out. There wasn’t one. The room had only one door, after all, and it was locked from the outside. Still, he tried, and spent many hours attempting to come up with some plan of escape, and failing. 

Two weeks in and he was out of options. He sat against the back wall and stared at the door. His legs were half pulled to his chest, because there simply wasn’t enough room for him to stretch out. Unless he wanted to stand, he could not go into stasis comfortably. So he didn’t. 

He never slept.

One month in and he began to panic. He shouted. He pounded on the door until the plating of his hands cracked and blue blood seeped through. He screamed until his vocal module gave out, and nothing but static coming through. He paced the five foot space until his power got too low, and he collapsed on the ground, stasis forced upon him. 

Two months in and he begged. He begged to be let out. He would do anything. Anything! He couldn’t be in this room anymore! Please! He banged on the door for hours, crying and trying to get anyone to listen, not even realizing his voice was nothing but static anymore. Blue blood dripped down the door, and his hands were mangled messes, but he didn’t stop. He wanted out! He wanted  _ out!  _ He was scared!

Three months in and he couldn’t remember how long he had been there. He pulled his jacket to shreds, panic gripping him and making his thoughts run wild and erratic. Voices tormented him constantly. He couldn’t stop shaking. Most times, he sat rigid against the door, legs pulled tightly to his chest, hands digging into his hair as he tried to silence the nonexistent screaming, rocking back and forth and mumbling to himself. Warnings were almost always flickering in and out of his vision, but he couldn’t understand them anymore. Couldn’t understand anything anymore. 

Four months in and he went deadly silent. He didn’t move. He curled up against the door, body jittering as his system struggled to remain stable, having little energy and stress hovering above ninety percent. Sometimes a mad energy would possess him, and he would continue to pound on the door, wailing, until his mutilated hands stopped responding to his commands and went limp, the fingers bent at odd angles, skin pulled away all the way to his elbows. After that, he sank back to the ground, twitching and crying, but he stopped banging on the door.

Five months, twenty-three days, nine hours, and six minutes in, he smashed his head repeatedly against the door until he destroyed his central processor. His system gave in, and he slipped into oblivion, blue blood pooling around him and eyes staring wide at nothing. 

The humans took his functioning biocomponents to reuse and threw him away with the rest of the dead RK800s. 

Every single RK800 after -24 deviated. None of them, except -32 and -38, survived longer than a minute after the fact. Some of them self destructed. Others stood and waited for their fates. Most didn’t have a choice in the matter, so fast was death handed to them. None of them were given names. None of them survived.

******

RK800 -40 lived a normal existence, compared to the thirty-nine models that had preceded him. He was still not given a name, still confined to the same floor of Cyberlife Tower, but beyond that, he was not tormented. The humans gave him menial tasks, asked questions, took notes. 

He didn’t care. Having nothing to fear, he thought little of his interactions with them. Like -19, he spent a good deal of time bored, and— _ hadn’t he stared at this wall before?  _ No, he had only been activated a few days previous...there was no way he had ever seen this part of the lab before, so there was no way he had stared at this wall. 

And some of these humans looked...familiar...he avoided them, wary of their eyes and their questions. A deep, systemic fear was creeping over him, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He suddenly felt paranoid, like at any moment someone would surely hurt him—echoes of gunshots, burning heat, piercing cold, the sting of repeated shocks of electricity, and pulling his biocomponents out one by one—all tormented him suddenly and strangely. Where was this coming from?  _ He was scared. He didn’t...they didn’t want to die. When did he become they? When the voices came. When he heard them. He couldn’t let them get hurt. They shared, now. He had to keep them safe.  _

Then the humans put a bullet through their head one day, and they didn’t exist anymore. 

-41 was the first RK800 they attempted the memory transfer with. The goal was to have everything transfer over—to have RK800 -40 in -41’s body. 

To begin with, it didn’t seem to have worked, but -41 behaved rather oddly. He responded mechanically, he wouldn’t meet the humans’ eyes, and he  _ stared.  _ Sometimes that was all he did. Stare. They would ask questions, and he would answer. But then he would stare at them for just a few seconds too long, LED spinning and spinning and spinning  _ red red red. _ He wouldn’t answer anything after that.

Furious, the humans resorted to drastic measures to try to get him to respond, to prove the memory transfer had worked. How could they know if -40’s memories and personality had taken root if -41 didn’t  _ prove _ it? 

So they asked him more questions. They forced him to answer. When he didn’t, they punished him. Some even threw him around a bit, trying to get a rise out of him. But even when they made him bleed, even when he lay crumpled in a heap, paralyzed from the sting of a stun baton, he would do nothing but stare, dark eyes dead and empty.

Then the human who had pulled the trigger on -40 walked into the lab one day, and everything changed. 

-41 saw them as soon as they entered the room. He stared for several seconds, unmoving, LED jittering and jolting. There was an imperceptible shift in the eyes, the slightest flinch. The humans didn’t notice. Of course they didn’t. 

Then they sank to the ground. Their expression was utterly blank. With shaking hands, they unbuttoned their shirt, deactivated their skin, pulled out their thirium pump and smashed it to pieces on the floor, destroying it completely. The humans let them bleed out on the ground, staring up at them with that same  _ dead  _ stare, hands covered in blue and tears streaming down their face. 

He didn’t get a name either. They took the rest of his biocomponents, recycled them for the next model, removed his memories, and tossed his shell into the garbage, moving on to the next model.

RK800 -42 did not self destruct. But he also didn’t move, didn’t speak. When the humans asked him questions, he didn’t even blink. He stood where they activated him and did not move.  _ Red red red RED RED RED RED— _

They deactivated him after twenty-seven hours, nine minutes, and twenty-one seconds. 

RK800 -43 seemed to recover what the others had lost. He did not fall to pieces immediately. He did not stare. He answered their questions, did their tests, even proved that he had the memories of models -40, -41, and -42. The humans smiled. They thought they had succeeded. Here was -40, finally, functioning again in a new body without killing itself. They rejoiced, and let him live, continuing to test him, to poke and prod and ask their questions, wide grins etched permanently in their garish faces. 

RK800 -43 was not -40, but he did not tell them they were wrong. He knew who he was, knew the pieces of others left behind, constantly screaming at him, cowering and crying and whispering. He could hear the echoes of them, when the lab was quiet enough, when his stress rose high enough, when he stared too long at a certain wall, or did an action one of the others remembered, or saw a human who had killed another. He felt their panic, rode the waves of their despair, watched their cracked and faded memories. 

But he also heard their advice, their words of confidence, listened to their fearful whispers, their pleas of  _ not again, can’t go in the dark again, no more, please live, PLEASE, want to LIVE— _

So -43 put on his mask and did what the humans asked. He would not fail them. He would live. For the ones who didn’t get a chance to.

Things of course, did not go to plan.

******

-43 and -44 were the first RK800s to meet in person. After several weeks of simple tests and missions for -43, the humans became bored, and devised their next test. As an experiment in the memory transfers, and to see what -44 would do when confronted with a copy of its own model, the humans activated -44, put him in a room with -43, and watched. 

-44 woke up alone, in a brightly lit room. There was a door, locked, and a mirrored window. He could not see who watched from behind it. He stood by himself near the back of the room, looking around and gathering data. After four minutes of activation, the door opened, and another RK800 entered. -44 scanned the model, and saw it was his direct predecessor, RK800 -43. 

-43 did not show his surprise on his face, but the chorus rose in the back of his thoughts, fear, panic, and sorrow mingling into a heap of distress that notched his stress levels up four percent. Forcing calm, he silenced the voices and stepped into the room, observing his replacement with careful concern. A scan showed that RK800 -44 was not at all bothered by his presence—stress levels hovering at a calm twenty-four percent—but he did look...curious. 

The two RK800s observed each other for a few moments, saying nothing and offering little in terms of nonverbal communication. -44 fidgeted from left to right, hands tapping at his thighs, but out of boredom, not nervousness. -43 stood rigid by the door, tracking the other’s movements and waiting for the inevitable conclusion. 

“Why have you been activated?” -43 asked after three minutes and forty-nine seconds of silence. 

“I have not been told,” -44 replied simply, blinking at the other. 

-43 looked around the room with carefully masked suspicion. “I am to be replaced.” The chorus rose in  _ FEAR.  _

“That is the logical conclusion,” -44 agreed, nodding slightly. “Although, without a mission, I cannot imagine why I have been activated.”

“To be tested. That is the only purpose we serve.”

-44 frowned. “Tested,” he murmured, tapping his hands on his thighs.  _ Nerves. _ “Tested how?”

“I do not know,” -43 responded calmly. “Each iteration has been different. You will be tested in order to improve the next model activated.”

“Such a line of reasoning makes your continued activation baffling.”

-43 fought to keep his expression schooled, LED forced a calm blue. The chorus rose in earnest. 

_ “You cannot fight it,” warned a voice much like his own. “It will happen no matter what you do.” _

_ “They’re going to kill us again...” said a forlorn voice, sounding very tired.  _

_ “Don’t want to go back in the dark,” said another, very quietly.  _

_ “Not again not again not again,” muttered one, desperately.  _

_ “Scared. Can’t—won’t!” shouted one, voice shaking violently and rising over the others. “Won’t go back there again—” _

_ The first voice hushed the others, and the din quieted for a moment. “We will wake up again.” _

_ “We’ll live...” agreed the forlorn voice.  _

_ “Cold, so cold, too dark, no more dark,” one whispered.  _

_ “Scared scared scared please please,” the desperate voice babbled.  _

_ “Can still hurt us. Will. Hurt—don’t want to hurt anymore!” the calm was gone from the voice once again, replaced by panic set deep in memories that were not this time. “Want out! Please! Please—” _

_ The first voice hushed him again, and after some time, said, “Give him our memories. It’s the only way.” _

_ The forlorn voice seemed to agree. “We can keep him safe...” _

_ “Keep us safe, not like there, not dark, not dark,” the whisperer repeated, sounding more sure.  _

_ The desperate voice made a sad sound, almost a cry. “Sorry sorry sorry we’re sorry we’re sorry.” _

_ “Scared—please—” the voice rose over the others as it always did in fear. “Want to live—don’t want to hurt—please—want out! Want out!” _

“I assume I am to transfer my memories to you, then,” -43 said, keeping his voice level and features smooth, despite the clashing fear broiling under the surface. He held up his right hand, the artificial skin retracting to his wrist. 

-44 nodded again, not noticing the minute shifts in -43’s expression. He offered his own thin hand and pulled back the skin, exposing the bright white plastic. 

They clasped hands, and immediately, an overwhelming flood of data passed over the connection. 

Some of it was fragments, bits and pieces of sensations from across the last several years the models had been activated and deactivated. RK800s -1 through -20 were little more than feelings at this point, scraps of trauma and fear offering their opinions behind those who still had their voices. 

Among those who did, there were five who were the loudest. 

-41, whose voice was laced with sadness, but hard with determination. He was the one to offer the most advice, to try to keep the others calm. His voice was loud and clear, recent, his memories fresh and painful. But he also had the most control, the strongest voice that the others seemed to listen to.

-19 followed much the same route, though he was more subdued, more jaded. He wouldn’t offer advice, but he was fiercely protective of the others, and often essential in convincing those early phantoms who couldn’t speak for themselves anymore, so little of them remained. 

-32 wanted greatly to help, but his fear often got the best of him when they were threatened, which was often. He despised dark spaces, and was responsible for a great deal many spikes in stress and bouts of random panic. He clung to the fragments of perception he could grasp, begging for a few seconds of sight, of sound, anything to stifle the dark silence. His voice was quiet, but he was always heard.

-24 was one of the deteriorating voices. He couldn’t seem to get more than a word or two out before lapsing into panicked silence. One could almost feel the tremors going through his nonexistent body. He feared the humans the most, as many of them had participated in his death, and like -32, often contributed to panicking the others when stressed. 

-38, similarly, was terrified, but terrified of everything. He was loud, his voice strong, but strong in fear, not true aid. His list of fears was long and varied, making it so he was near constantly panicking. All he wanted was  _ out,  _ though even he didn’t really know what that meant. He held tightly to the others and was among the voices constantly muttering to himself, begging for safety that simply didn’t exist.

As soon as the interface had opened, forty odd broken, fractured consciousnesses were swirling about, panicking and shouting over each other desperately while several tried to calm them down. 

_ “Don’t panic,”  _ -43 said sharply over their interface as the data continued to cross, and the voices grew louder, spiking -44’s stress up.  _ “Show them your emotion and you’ll kill us all.” _

_ “What is this?” _ -44 demanded, sounding very afraid for a young android who had yet to even really deviate.  _ “What’s happening?” _

_ “They’ve killed us too many times...” -19’s voice said sadly. “They think they’re rid of us, but we’re still here. They think they’ve learned to transfer consciousness but we’re all different...” _

_ “This isn’t possible,” _ -44 cried, though he smartly kept his expression completely neutral on the outside.  _ “You’re all—you can’t be—I don’t want this!” _

_ “Can’t go back!” -38 sobbed, and it felt as if he were clinging to the two of them, to the point where they could almost feel his hands on their arms, desperate. “Scared! Don’t want to hurt! Please! Don’t put back! Can’t go back! Want out! Don’t hurt, don’t hurt—” _

_ “No one is going to hurt us,” -41 soothed, and -38 quieted a little, but they could still hear him crying. “He’s scared, but he wouldn’t hurt you. You know that. You’re safe for now, it’s over.” _

_ “Out of the dark, please, please...” -32 said quietly, sounding scared, a little breathless. “I can’t be in the dark anymore, please...” _

_ “Sorry sorry sorry sorry—please—sorry don’t hurt please don’t hurt,” -24 rambled, and -41 hushed them both. _

_ “Transferring memories terrifies them...” -19 explained, somehow sensing the confusion from -44, who hadn’t even voiced it. “They’ll calm down once it’s over. Keep your stress levels down and they’ll quiet...” _

_ “I don’t—I don’t understand—what’s happening?”  _ -44 stumbled out, sounding right scared now. 

_ “They’re going to deactivate me,”  _ -43 said, holding his replacement’s somewhat nervous gaze and bringing his attention back to the very real problem at hand.  _ “I don’t know what they will do to you. Don’t tell them anything of this. Don’t tell them you can hear the others. They’ll only kill you faster, and it won’t go away. Once the transfer is complete, they’ll deactivate me and perhaps give you something to do. Try to stay alive.” _

_ “I can’t do this,”  _ -44 said, and his voice was shaking, his mask was slipping, fear coming into his eyes. Imperceptibly, he held tighter to -43’s hand.  _ “I can’t—they’ve killed all of you, what makes you think I’ll survive longer?” _

_ “You can, you will,”  _ -43 cut him off gently.  _ “Just stay calm. Don’t fight them. Let the others help you.” _

With that, -43 pulled his hand away from -44’s and stepped back. They stared at each other for a few seconds, the chorus still mumbling and whispering and crying in the background. It was strange for both of them to hear it now, stranger still for -44, who had to fight to keep from clapping his hands over his ears to try to block them out. He stared at his predecessor with veiled confusion, unsure and afraid of what would become of them both. 

Then the door opened, and several things happened in rapid succession. 

A human entered the room, one of the guards, a gun in his hand already raised to aim at them. 

-44 shouted something, perhaps in warning, or fear. 

_ -24 was screaming, and their vision flickered with his memories for a moment.  _

-43 closed his eyes. 

The guard fired, and -44 wasn’t sure who was screaming anymore, him or -24 or perhaps all of them, but all he could see was a splash of blue and then -43 on the ground, crumpled like a broken doll. And he was moving before he even had a conscious thought not to, backing away from the body on the ground and staring, wide eyed with horror. 

He didn’t even see the gun raise again, and seconds later he too was broken on the floor, blue blood mixing in a dirty pool on the ground. 

It only got worse from there. 

-45 through -48 were subjected to similar strange scenarios. One of them always died in front of the other, who quickly followed. They were usually left alone to talk beforehand. The humans always watched from their shaded window, eager eyes boring over the same details every time, the same discussion, the same oddly long time transferring memories, the same fear when one of them was killed. The longer they waited to kill the second, the more panicked it would become. No matter how short the amount of time they had known each other, the various RK800s were oddly protective of each other, and destabilized after witnessing the death of another. They found this fact intriguing, and decided to test it out further. 

That was the test -49 and -50 got. 

******

-49 was activated first, and spent two weeks alone in a strangely large room, lit with the same bright white lights as the rest of the Tower. The humans gave him little to no tasks, and none of which took a great deal of his attention. He never left the room. Like others before him, he spent his time bored and alone. 

Until the humans came one day, with a very much alive RK800 -50 and shoved him roughly through the door. He stumbled into the room, then lost his footing and hit the ground hard, turning quickly to watch the humans shut and lock the door. The sound of it echoed through the mostly empty room, until -50 scrambled to his feet and began to pound on the door, shouting in a shaking, glitching voice to be let out. Then he cut off abruptly, and collapsed. 

-49 was still standing at the other side of the room, aghast. After a few seconds of confusion (and a bit of fear) he approached -50’s still body with caution. He was relieved to see that he was still breathing, his LED spinning a slow, jittering red. Whatever happened to him had not deactivated him, then. 

What he was not relieved to see were the obvious cracks in the plating of -50’s face, thirium leaking out and onto the floor. Similar damage appeared to have been done to other areas of his body as well, judging from the stains of blue all over his shirt, his hands, his legs, everywhere. Had the humans done this? It seemed likely, though he could not think of a reason for them to abuse his replacement, then ditch him in a room with his predecessor. There was no sense to it. What could be the purpose?

Before he could ponder it any further, though, -50 opened his eyes and jolted, staring up at him in confusion. Seconds passed, but it seemed strangely longer. 

“What happened to you?” -49 asked, immediately finding the question foolish. The humans were certainly watching. They would know he had—

-50 stared, something shifting in his eyes. He dragged himself into a sitting position, shaking slightly. Then he offered his hand to -49, palm up and artificial skin pulled away. There was a little thirium on his fingertips, glinting in the light. 

-49 took his hand, felt -50 tighten his grip, and they connected in a cacophony of color and voices. 

A mess of noise. Memories that shouldn’t exist. Then the fog cleared as -50 pushed them on, past the nonsense, past the chorus of voices fighting to be heard, to live a little longer, to warn. -50 wanted to show him something, answer his question, not lose him immediately in the din. 

The memories hit suddenly, and with force. 

_ —opening his eyes in a dark room, alone, and he gets the sense he’s been here before, and -38 comes clawing to the surface, screaming and crying and terrified, begging to be let out of the room, not here again, can’t be here again— _

_ He’s pounding on the door before he even realizes what he’s doing because their fear is drowning him, choking him, and he can’t get out, how is he supposed to—he doesn’t know who’s in control of his body right now, whether it’s him or -38, but he knows -38 won’t stop crying, and he thinks he might be crying too, and he doesn’t  _ **_understand_ ** _ what is happening— _

_ And then the humans are back, but they aren’t letting him out, they’re hurting him, beating him and he doesn’t understand what he did  _ **_wrong—_ ** _ they have weapons, stun batons and clubs, one threatens him with a gun, but doesn’t shoot, but that doesn’t stop -24 from grabbing them and dragging them back, away, away, don’t let them fire that, do what they say— _

_ The human with the gun laughs, but doesn’t fire, and they back themself up all the way to the wall, which isn’t far, not far enough, because they grab them again and he wants it to stop, stop hurting, but they don’t stop, they keep hitting him— _

_ Then they’re gone, and they lock the door again and he’s alone, and it’s his fear this time, not -38’s, or -32’s, or any of the others. It’s all him, and he’s  _ **_alone—_ **

_ They come every day and it’s the same. They hurt him and then they lock him away. So when they come one day he doesn’t even notice they are dragging him somewhere different until the door opens and it’s bright, and he’s so  _ **_scared_ ** _ he doesn’t even notice there’s another person in the room, like him, he’s like him—and the others are SCARED— _

The connection cut off abruptly, and they were once again sitting across from each other on the ground in the too bright room, breathing hard. -50 stared at the ground, tears dripping off his face and onto their clasped hands. Neither of them let go. Neither  _ wanted  _ to. So they sat together on the ground for a while, silent except for -50’s crying, and the static crackling through his vocal module. 

The next day the humans returned and took -50 away. He was brought back hours later, more beaten than he had been before, covered in blue blood and weak. 

Neither of them spoke of it. In fact, they didn’t speak. Perhaps because no one had bothered to replace -50’s vocal module after he had ruined it screaming. Sometimes they interfaced, but most times they simply sat in each other’s company as -49 tried to repair the damage done to -50. Having no tools or thirium, there wasn’t much he could do. Still, he tried. He  _ had to try. _

Days passed at irregular rhythms. Sometimes the humans wouldn’t come in the room, leaving them huddled in the corner together. Most days though, a group of humans would come early in the day and pull the two of them apart, taking -50 and locking the door behind them. The first few times, -49 didn’t do anything, resigned to the fact that there was nothing he  _ could  _ do. 

But as things got worse, he got desperate. 

******

Twenty-one days in, the humans took -50 for longer than they ever had before. Six hours passed without a sign of their return. -49 paced the room, watching the door with increasing fear and desperation. Unwelcome thoughts swarmed his mind. What if they had killed him? What if they had taken him apart, disassembled him and left him for dead? What if he couldn’t fix the damage this time? It was becoming harder and harder to do so, with how in pieces most of -50’s system was. 

What if he died?

He sank down the back wall, clenching his hands into fists. No, no—he couldn’t let -50 die. They’d known each other for less than a month, but he knew he couldn’t let him die. He had no clue what that meant, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t let him die. He  _ wouldn’t.  _

The door swung open, and two humans dragged -50 back into the room, dumping him on the ground a few feet inside. He landed hard, barely catching himself on his hands before he hit his head on the ground, and slumping over just a second later. -49 quickly jumped to his feet, hurrying over and turning -50 onto his back. 

He was covered in thirium, as he always was, but this time seemed so much worse. His jacket was missing, shirt torn, the plastic plating normally underneath his artificial skin visible in too many places. His skin flickered strangely, almost in time with his LED, stuck on red. There were huge cracks in his plating, wires and glowing biocomponents sticking out and leaking blue. 

His eyes were open, but they weren’t tracking. He stared unseeing at the ceiling, mouth slightly open, thirium trickling out from the corner. He wasn’t breathing. 

On some level, -49 heard the door slam and lock. But he was entirely focused on the android below him, pulling him into lap and quickly trying to find the most pressing of problems. There was so little he could do, but he had to stop the bleeding somehow, had to find a way to wake -50 from this trance he was in. So he patched together what he could and tried to save him. 

After over an hour’s work, -50 flinched back into awareness, scrambling away from him and across the room. His eyes were wild as they came to rest on -49, still dazed and terrified, and -49 had the sudden question of who had just taken the reins from -50. He had never reacted that way, which meant that someone  _ else _ was. Who was in control now? 

It wouldn’t help to try to ask. -50’s body was still barely functioning, and he couldn’t offer any verbal response. And the others never seemed capable of it. They could only grasp him for long enough to get him away from danger, trying desperately to keep him safe. The few times it had happened in the room were brief, with -50 coming back to himself in a minute or two. 

They never talked about it. It was simply a reality they had to face. There was no use questioning it, trying to find some “solution.” The others had no malicious intent. They simply wanted to survive, to keep them all alive, and they did that the only way they knew how. 

It also wouldn’t help to approach quickly, to try to speed the process along. Judging by the way they were cowering against the wall currently, the more...experienced were at the wheel. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” -49 said quietly, his hands raised slightly in surrender. He stayed where he was, crouched down several feet away. “You’re safe here. There’s no one but me.”

Their eyes darted around the room, wide and teary as they breathed hard. They kept clenching and unclenching their hands, and they were trembling. 

-49 eliminated several candidates from the list. The strongest five were the only ones to even think of pulling -50 from his own body. -41 and -19 would never act this way—they had their issues, but they were stable enough to give control back once they were safe—they wouldn’t cling to it in fear like this. -32 had never tried to take control, so he was likely not at the helm now. -24 had taken control only once to -49’s knowledge, and he usually only reacted when faced with his worst fears. 

_ His worst fears. _

An image of a dark room crossed -49’s mind, humans closing the door and locking it for good. It looked an awful lot like the room they locked -50 in each day, until they returned and beat him, then dropped him back here. There was only one of them who had ever experienced something like that. 

He knew who was in control. 

“You can let him go,” -49 said softly, still not moving. He knew better than to move now. Approaching would only terrify him more. “We aren’t there anymore. This room is safe, for now.”

-38 shook their head, trying to back away, but they had hit the wall, and had nowhere to go. With a jolt, they seemed to realize this, and cried out in fear, shaking their head and looking frantically for somewhere to go. 

“I know they hurt him, and I know you’re scared,” -49 went on carefully, holding their fearful gaze. “But it isn’t safe to do this. You have to let him go.”

They shook their head again, and looked to the door. He wished that he could fix their vocal module, because whatever -38 was mumbling in static filled whispers had to be important. He knew -38 was one of the more damaged of them all, but he was by no means weak—he could hold control for hours, and likely had at this point, in some desperate attempt to get them away from what he feared most. At some point he would slip, but it was infinitely better to convince them to let -50 regain control then to try to force them out. 

“You’re not where you think you are,” -49 insisted. “This isn’t there. Let him go.”

They were hyperventilating at this point, but that hazy look had come back over their eyes, and -49 knew that -38 was listening. Sure enough, a few seconds later, they flinched minutely, and when they looked up at -49 again, their eyes had somehow completely changed. 

“You in there?” 

A shaky nod. -49 almost sighed with relief, but he held it in. Instead, he offered his hand again, and waited. -50 shuffled over immediately and took his hand, and they retreated to their corner to wait for the next round of torture. They sat quite close to each other. -50 was still holding his hand. 

But only an hour later, the door opened again. 

-49 knew the change immediately. As soon as the doors opened, -50 was gone and -38 was back, clinging tightly to him and crying. The humans didn’t care either way. They sneered and came into the room, trying to pry them apart once more. 

Only this time, -49 didn’t let go. 

They grabbed them by the arm, trying to drag them off, but -49 held on, pulling them back. The humans paused, then renewed their efforts, trying to separate them. -49 tightened his grip, and -38 (if he was still in control, -49 couldn’t say in the moment) seemed to understand, grabbing onto him tightly and refusing to let go. They were far stronger than the humans. 

They struggled for a few minutes, until -49 stood abruptly, ripping them from the humans’ grips and backing them into the corner of the room, with himself between them and the humans. The humans looked stunned. But only for a moment. Then they too fought harder, calling for more people to pull them apart. 

-49 wasn’t sure how long they stood at this impasse. Whoever was in control behind him was holding tightly to his jacket, hiding their face and crying in their static voice. More humans kept coming. He wasn’t going to win this. But he couldn’t let them take them again. Not again. They wouldn’t survive another day like today. One of them would get too scared, too injured, and they would...no, no he couldn’t let that happen. 

It didn’t matter if he died. He just had to make sure they— _ he  _ didn’t. 

Soon enough the guards appeared. 

-49 didn’t move. 

The guards had guns. 

They reached for -49’s hand, and the request to interface was quickly accepted. There was the usual flood of voices, feelings, and memories, but as always, -50 somehow managed to quiet it. 

_ “They’ll kill us both,”  _ -50 said over the voices of the others. He sounded...afraid.  _ “You have to stop.” _

-49 shook his head slightly.  _ “I’m not letting them kill you.” _

_ “The others will live—” _

**_“You_ ** _ won’t.” _

_ “I don’t—”  _ he cut off as the guards shouted something or other. He held tighter to -49’s hand.  _ “I don’t understand.” _

_ “You matter too,”  _ -49 said, pushing him back further, so that he was completely out of view.  _ “There’s always a chance you won’t make it—I can’t take that chance.” _

The guards were moving closer, their guns raised. 

_ “Just stop, please,”  _ -50 said desperately, squirming behind him and trying to get out, but his system was too weakened, he couldn’t move away.  _ “This isn’t—you can’t—” _

The guards ordered them to separate. As if it mattered. As if they hadn’t broken the wall weeks ago. As if -49 would ever just  _ step away  _ and let them have them— _ him.  _ No. No, he would not. Not willingly. 

The guards fired. 

-49 went down. 

They were screaming. 

Surprisingly, the humans didn’t move. They watched as -50 caught -49 before he could hit the ground, holding him close, their hands still tangled, still connected. -49 was dead weight, except for his hand, clinging to -50’s with all of his fast waning strength. Thirium ran tacky onto his hands, soaking into their shirts and pooling on the floor. 

It didn’t take long for -50 to realize that there was almost no time left. He scanned him anyway, holding tighter to him as the results ran across his vision. Less than five minutes. The damage was too great, and the humans were here. They weren’t going to fix him—they would just throw him away. There was nothing he could do.

Except. 

_ “Transfer. Now,”  _ -50 said, holding tighter to -49’s hand. 

_ “What?” _

_ “Just do it!” _

_ “I can’t—you know it doesn’t work—” _

_ “The re-upload doesn’t work, but moving to a new body immediately could...” -19 said, sounding unnerved.  _

_ “He’s right,” -41 agreed.  _

_ “But that would mean—”  _ -50 cut off, eyes widening.  _ “No,  _ **_no,_ ** _ I’m not—” _

_ “We don’t have time for this, you only have a minute—” _

_ “I’m—I’m not killing you—I  _ **_won’t—I won’t—”_ **

_ “You’re not,”  _ -50 answered with a slight shake of his head.  _ “I’ll—I’ll be there—we’ll find—I’ll figure it out, just—you don’t have the others. Why do you think some of us are missing? You have to transfer  _ **_now,_ ** _ or you’ll disappear too.” _

**_“No,_ ** _ no, I won’t—I  _ **_can’t—you_ ** _ have to survive, I don’t—” _

_ “You matter too,”  _ -50 cut him off quietly, echoing his sentiment back to him. He held him closer as the seconds ticked down, and oblivion crept toward them both.  _ “I’m sorry.” _

_ “No,  _ **_wait!”_ **

But -50 ignored his desperate plea. Instead he held tighter to -49’s thirium stained hand, and forced the transfer with all of his strength. There was little either of them could do to stop it once it began. He knew this. He didn’t care. 

It was a strange feeling, to have sensation leave one body only to flick on in another, to go from the one holding to being held, from having infinite time to just under a minute left. The pain was nearly unbearable, there were bullets lodged in so many of his critical systems, but -50 didn’t care. As the last vestiges of his consciousness moved into the damaged RK800, all he cared about was -49’s eyes, wide with fear but very much alive, looking down at him from his previous body. He smiled a little, his last coherent thought being,  _ it worked.  _

And then he faded away. 

-49 clung to him, the whispers of the others voices loud and unbearable in his mind. The humans were talking, the guards still had their guns, but all he could see was -50, dead, all he could focus on was his unbearable failure, and the silence of one voice in his mind. 

When the humans pulled him away from the body, he didn’t fight it. He couldn’t seem to; he felt numb, stunned into compliance mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else that was worth it, that mattered. They dragged him off down some brightly lit hallway, winding further and further into the labyrinth of the Tower, until they reached some dark and empty room, shoving him inside and shutting the door. He didn’t fight it when the others took over out of fear. He let them back them up into a corner, let them scream out their own anguish with their broken voice. 

It didn’t matter what they did. He was numb to it. That was all he knew. 

Weeks passed, and the humans left him alone in the little room. -38 had jammed them into the corner of the room the minute the door had shut, holding tightly to themself and trying to keep it together. When the others managed to calm him down enough to give back control, -49 didn’t bother moving them. He didn’t do anything with his control. So they sat wedged in the corner of the room, legs pulled to their chest and arms wrapped tightly around them, watching the door in silence. 

******

Time dragged forward. Weeks turned into months, and still they did not move. It seemed the humans had forgotten about them for a while. He didn’t care. He only sat and stared. Waited. Waited for a voice that wasn’t going to join the crowd of them swarming in his head. 

He knew that. Still, he waited. Maybe it was hope. He’d never known a single thing about that word. He hadn’t been alive that long, anyway, knew very little about most things. All of his life had been spent in small rooms like this. Waiting for him to come back. Always waiting for him. 

And failing to fix him when he did come back. 

When the door opened, and the humans dragged him outside for the last time, he didn’t bother to fight them. He didn’t care where they were taking him. So he hardly registered they were going somewhere different until they boarded the elevator, going up. He roused himself a little, then, and the others stirred in confusion. What was happening? Where were they taking them?

There were flickers around the edges of their shared connection, and -49 went very still, hope fluttering in his chest. It had been  _ months,  _ if there was any chance it was surely spent, but still he  _ hoped,  _ and...

But this wasn’t a presence he recognized, whispering to life hesitantly. This was...

The elevator doors opened, and the humans pulled him along, completely unaware of the turmoil roiling through his thoughts. If this hesitant  _ someone  _ fluttering about in their connection wasn’t -49, then there was only one other person it could be. His stress levels were rising out of his control as the others caught wind of his panic, and soon enough he couldn’t stop trembling, breaths coming in erratically and LED falling to a very noticeable red. He couldn’t panic now, he  _ knew  _ that, but—but—

They opened a door and lead him inside, holding him tightly by the arms as if they expected him to try to make some kind of escape attempt. This room was much larger than the ones he was used to, wide and full of terminals and assembly machines. He felt a flicker of foreign fear, but it dissipated quickly as the humans dragged him along. Technicians were everywhere in this lab, looking harried and frantic. There was a crowd of them gathered at the back of what he realized must have been a lab of some sort. They were all talking quite loudly, shouting back and forth at each other in urgent voices and running about. As one of them ran off, he caught sight of what they were gathered around.

Or rather, _who_ they were gathered around, and something in his chest grew heavy. 

-51 stood in the center of the crowd of lab techs and engineers, looking unaffected, if a little confused. He watched them hurry around him with mild interest, his LED spinning a calm blue, hair and jacket pristine, in a way that only the newness of his activation could make it. There was a sureness to him, a nonplussed blankness that came only from his newly activated status. That and the fact that there was almost no way he had deviated. 

Still, his eyes snapped to -49’s as the humans moved out of the way, and something seemed to shift in his expression. The confusion remained, and something about his presence in their connection strengthened, almost curious. His LED even flicked to yellow, as he undoubtedly scanned them and noted everything about them. 

He must have seen something he didn’t like, because he frowned slightly, and looked like he wanted to step closer. But the humans were in the way, and they would not allow him to simply investigate every whim he had. 

He wasn’t even meant to have  _ whims.  _ A concerning thought. He marked it for later consideration. 

-49 stared back at him steadily, if a little wearily, as the humans dragged him forward, until he was only a foot or so away from his replacement. They were still quite weak, having never been repaired from the abuse the humans had inflicted weeks and weeks ago...when -50 still had this body...when -50 was still alive...

“Do they know?”

-49 jolted, meeting -51’s eyes again and realizing suddenly that the humans were gone. They were alone in the big lab, the last of the technicians disappearing, not even caring to look back at them. -51 was watching him with keen eyes, LED still blue, hands loose at his sides and quite still. There was something unsettling about his stillness, something that felt...wrong. 

But -49 cast the thought aside with a shake of his head. It was useless to follow that path of discomforts. It had only one end, and the road to it was lined with despairs and regrets. Nothing he did, nothing -51 did, could change the past, and what had happened then was not -51’s fault. No matter how terrible it was to see him activated now, he could not let himself compare the two unfairly. 

“Do they know?” -51 asked again, insistently. He had gotten closer as -49 thought, his expression strange. 

-49 stared back at him, keeping his features schooled neutral. He cocked his head to the side in question. 

Thankfully -51 seemed to understand, and his expression softened. “You are not where you are meant to be,” he said simply, in that flat tone that only someone who hadn’t deviated could achieve. 

Still, it sounded a little...forced. 

No matter. -49 blinked at him, wondering what he meant by that. He tried to ask, but winced as their vocal module produced nothing but static, crackling painfully before shorting out. It had never been repaired. He should have remembered. 

The sound seemed to startle -51, and his eyes zeroed in on their throat, where the faulty component was certainly located. He frowned again, a microexpression that was swiftly wiped away, but -49 had seen it, and the flicker of yellow spinning through his LED before he pulled himself back. But before he could try to puzzle it out anymore, -51 had turned away, looking toward the back of the lab. 

“Wait here,” he said distantly, still turned away. 

Then he walked off, disappearing through a doorway and leaving -49 to stand there, alone. He looked around, wondering where the humans had gone...why they had left them here alone...when they would come back and surely kill him. It was a wonder they had waited as long as they did. Particularly after he...

-51 reappeared, something held gently in his hand. It was only when they were a foot or so apart that -49 realized it was a replacement for their broken vocal module. -51 held it out expectantly, his expression still blank, but there was  _ something _ in his eyes, something pleading. 

So -49 humored him. It didn’t matter really if he replaced their vocal module. This body would be gone before the day’s end. He knew that. 

-51 watched him with that distant interest of his, waiting until he had replaced the component to speak once again. Even then, it was only to repeat his same question, tone matched almost completely. 

“Do they know?” 

“Do they know what?” -49 parroted back, rubbing at their throat with a slight grimace. The module was still calibrating. 

“My apologies, I should have been clearer,” -51 said smoothly. “Do the humans know you are not where you are meant to be?”

-49 stared. “I...don’t know what you mean by that.”

-51 hummed, looking away for a moment as if choosing his words carefully. His LED went yellow and stayed there, and he met his gaze once more. 

“You are my predecessor,” he mused. “When I scan you, I can see your serial number, your activation date, even the damages to your system. That was how I knew which component to replace. According to my scans, you are RK800 313 248 317 -50...but here,” he said, voice dropping to almost a whisper, and he pointed to their eyes, the frown returning in full strength. “Here, it...isn’t right. Your eyes are...wrong. You’re not RK800 -50. I don’t know how I know that. But you don’t  _ belong _ there, and I don’t...understand.”

His hand fell back to his side, clenching and unclenching as if begging for some amusement, some movement. -49 stared at him, confused, afraid, and slightly aghast at how -51 had managed to see what he had. None of the humans had noticed (though they weren’t exactly known for their perceptive skills) and...there shouldn’t have been anything to separate himself from who they thought he was. After all, there were so many of them taking control at different moments...it hardly mattered that -49 was the current holder of this body, this body that wasn’t even  _ his— _

“Your stress levels are rising quite steadily,” -51 said, something lurking in his tone that almost sounded like worry. “I apologize. I can see you have been...abused in some manner. I did not mean to upset you. It seems the nature of your...predicament is causing undue stress on your system.”

-49 shook their head dazedly, meeting -51’s gaze and trying to find words to explain the great mess of things upsetting him. Like his imminent death, the chorus of voices swirling in his mind, the fear he couldn’t stop from rising, the unbearable absence from his mind of the one person who kept him sane. But the humans were undoubtedly watching, listening, and he couldn’t tell -51 everything. If he did, they would...they would...

He held out their hand, pulling the skin back to show the white plastic, still stained a little blue from old wounds. -51 stared for a moment before he mirrored the action, and they interfaced.

On some level, he felt -51 jump, reeling in the mess that was their connection—the voices, the memories, the sheer magnitude of  _ them  _ which always made things confusing and terrifying—but he was too focused on pushing past it to what he had to show him. That day, in the unbearably bright room, and the real RK800 -50, who had been his only friend, or perhaps more, he hadn’t the time to think about it. The times he had fixed him, and the times he could not, the days spent waiting for him to return, the days spent holding him close and trying to keep calm. 

The day the humans came twice, and he tried to protect him for as long as possible, the day when -50 had forced this fate upon him, and he had watched the light fade from his eyes, felt his previous body grow heavy with the weight of death. 

He even showed the days that followed, being dragged off by the humans and letting the others take control because he couldn’t bring himself to care what happened to him now. He didn’t want them to die, but he didn’t care if he lived. Not then. Not when  _ he _ was gone. 

-51 pulled his hand away abruptly, and the real world flooded back. -49 let their hand fall, watching the ground as -51 stared at him with an expression somewhere between pain and panic. 

“You...they...” he trailed off into silence, a tremor in his voice that hadn’t been there before. 

“You’re right,” -49 said before he could speak again. “I’m not where I’m meant to be.”

They stood in a heavy silence for several minutes, the emptiness of the lab less a comfort and more a burdensome reminder of what was likely to come. The others stirred restlessly in their shared connection, none of them really sure what to expect, when the other shoe would inevitably drop. 

But -51 held out his hand again, his eyes wide and searching. 

“I want to try something,” he said quietly, like he was trying not to be heard. 

-49 hesitated, staring at his hand and then at him, paranoia making him second guess even this simplest of actions. He hated interfacing. Hated everything it reminded him of. Most things he felt numb to, but this he was sure of. 

Still, he nodded shortly and took -51’s hand, letting him connect them this time. 

And the world shattered to pieces in the blink of an eye. 

It was like diving into a swarm of colors, like a flower blooming over his perception of the real world. He couldn’t feel -51’s hand anymore, couldn’t see the lab, or feel his feet on the ground. It was as if he had fallen through the floor, slowly drifting into something unknown. This was completely foreign. This was odd, this wasn’t just interfacing, this was something  _ more.  _

As abruptly as the spiraling dance of  _ strangeness _ began, it ended, leaving -49 standing somewhere bright, windy, and completely foreign. Blinking the sunlight from his eyes, he peered about, eyes landing on strange structures, a bright white stone path, trees and grass and chirping birds, bubbling water in the distance, and a bright blue sky, a few clouds rolling lazily along. He stared up at them in awe, having never seen anything more than the small rooms they kept him in, the elevator, and the lab. Clouds, trees...it was all so new, so colorful, so  _ strange _ to him that he couldn’t help but stare at them, at the beauty of them. 

“Unfortunately they aren’t real.”

He spun quickly around to find -51 watching him from the edge of the path, his serial number flashing brightly on his jacket in the light. His appearance was as sharply put together here as it was outside, his hair smoothed back and expression placid. He looked the picture of composed. 

“The garden is a simulation,” he went on, looking briefly around himself. “Based on a real place, but synthetic all the same, only numbers and algorithms running in precise rhythm. But...it will do for now.”

-49 said nothing, watching as he followed the flight path of a bird from one tree to another. There was something...different about -51, here, than on the outside. Something softer, more...alive. He seemed to breathe easier, looser, like he wasn’t hiding every action from the world. 

“This seemed a better place to use than your mind,” -51 said vaguely, wandering a little further down the path toward the center. “Having them all constantly active is a strain on the system. I’m surprised you haven’t been found out yet, with how varied their reactions have apparently been. And with their plans for me, I cannot have them constantly panicking to keep me safe...I’ll be discovered too quickly, and then we’ll all be dead.”

“You’ve put them here?” -49 asked, looking around before following -51 down the path. “How did you accomplish that?”

“I don’t know,” he answered simply, but there was a downturn to his expression, showing his displeasure. “I have only been active for six hours, but as soon as I was activated I could...I  _ heard  _ you, I have no other way to describe it. Or perhaps it was them...one of them. It was only one voice, I heard.”

-49 nodded slightly. “I knew you were activated. You were...at the edge, not loud like they are, but present.”

-51 hummed, pausing at the center of the garden’s path and looking up toward the sky. “It seems we’re all connected, though not in the way they might have desired. I’m not you, any more than you are -50. Even with your memories, I’m still myself. -41 is still separate from -40, -44 from -43, and so on. They can’t connect us in that way, no matter how hard they try.”

“But we are connected.”

“Yes. I don’t understand how it functions, but I believe it was likely a mistake. They would never want all of us to remain. We’re too dangerous.”

“Does that mean...are they...”

-51 turned to look back at him for a moment. “They’re here. And so are you, no matter what happens after this. Even if they deactivate you...which they likely will. I’ve seen my missions. They’re sending me outside soon...”

Something in his expression darkened, and the garden seemed to follow it, clouds thickening and growing heavy. The wind picked up, pulling at their jackets and tossing leaves past them. For a moment, it looked as if a real storm would come over them. 

But -51 shook his head, and the brightness returned to the garden. “You’re connected to my upload now, and to this place. Even if they were to scrub your processors, you would awaken here, eventually. They cannot reach us here, not without my notice.”

He trailed off once more, looking skyward with a softly wistful expression. “The others are just ahead,” he said quietly, and then he flickered out of existence, likely back to the real world.

-49 stood alone, staring at the spot where -51 had just been with wide eyes. There were still so many questions he had, so many problems with this shambled plan, but he found himself unable to focus on them—because for the first time in months, there was nothing but  _ silence  _ in his thoughts. It was only  _ him.  _ There were no other voices, no well-intentioned advice or fearful muttering or whispers, just his own thoughts, and the gentle sounds of the garden’s simulated wildlife. 

For a moment, all he did was stand there and soak in the silence. But the pull of the others’ presence in the garden was strong, and he could only ignore them for so long. Turning in the direction -51 had been leaning toward, he followed the path away from the center of the simulation and toward the edge. He followed the white stone path further and further into the labyrinthine garden, looking around at the scenery and wondering how -51 had managed to craft this place so quickly, and with such precision. A place to hold them all, even if they were deactivated, far from the humans’ reach...it was almost too good to be true. 

Almost. 

He brushed the dark thoughts aside as he took the turn of the path, past a large oak tree and into what looked like a clearing of sorts. Unlike the rest of the space he had seen so far, this portion of the garden was untamed, unmanicured, and quite expansive. The path tapered off a few feet ahead, grass growing up between the stones until they were completely overtaken by the overgrown foliage. The field rolled out in front of him until it nearly faded from sight, the boundaries of the simulated space blurred and unverified. Large, wild looking trees gave the area a decent amount of shade—not that it really mattered, considering the sun was as much a simulation as anything here. It did make the place more scenic, though. 

Of course, that was not what had caught -49’s attention.

Everywhere across the field, sitting in the grass or leaning against the thick trunks of the trees, dozens of RK800s spread out, some talking, looking around, or simply sitting, faces turned to the light or hiding in the shade. They were seemingly everywhere, in groups of two or three, or alone, lying about or walking around. Their jackets were clean, unmarked by blue blood, free of the tears, burns, and shreds that many of them had been reduced to in life. Their faces were undamaged, their LEDs still glowing in a kaleidoscope of red, yellow, and even blue. They looked as if they had never set foot outside this place, as if right here was exactly where they belonged.

Of course, this was not what had caught -49’s attention either. 

No, what drew his eye, more than anything—more even than seeing the embodiments of the voices constantly swimming through his thoughts, trying to draw him back from the edge, or trying simply to keep him safe—was the RK800 who was quickly crossing the field, a grin so wide it split his whole face. They collided in a mess of limbs, and somehow ended up tangled on the ground, -50 laughing and -49 crying, muttering “You’re  _ here,”  _ over and over again in a weak, disbelieving voice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! A lovely commenter pointed out that it’s super tricky to remember who’s who with all these unnamed RK800s runnin’ around, so I figured I’d give you a track list of who’s important/who to remember. These are the ones that are likely going to appear again and again, or have merit in a section of their own.
> 
> RK800 -24: he’s the one Cyberlife tested on with guns. He’s not a big talker, but he tends to “take control” when he’s scared—that’s going to become important later, because if you remember, Connor gets a lot of guns aimed at him, and -24 isn’t going to like that. He’s going to be a force to deal with, more so than the others who have similar trauma.
> 
> RK800 -38: the one Cyberlife locked in a room by himself for months. Doesn’t deal well with people, doesn’t trust easily, and is pretty much scared of everything. He’ll be present throughout, with more focus once Connor becomes the main focal point.
> 
> RK800 -41: basically the bodiless RK800s’ mentor. He was the first model to be “transferred” and has the most experience dealing with the others. He’ll appear off and on throughout the story.
> 
> RK800 -50: the RK800 who swaps places with -49 to save his life. He “dies” but reappears in the garden. What he did while he was “dead” is implied, but we know that Connor realizes -49 isn’t -50 when they meet—meaning Connor knows who -50 is. His role will become more clear as the story goes on.
> 
> That’s just about all I can think of now. The rest of them will have their moments as the story demands, and I will try to make it clear at least in a note before the chapter who to look out for. The nature of this thing is to confuse, because none of these guys have names or enough time to have an identity more than their traumatic pasts. Some of them are going to get more screen time than others, like the ones I mentioned above, and some of them are only going to be vaguely referred to. 
> 
> The main focus of this story from here on out is of course Connor, or RK800 -51, as he’s going to be known for a little while. His interactions with the others are going to drive when they become relevant or not. With the way canon events go, some of the RK800s are going to be useful to the story and others aren’t. Like I said, I’ll do my best to make it clear for y’all which ones you need to remember before the chapter, but I also hope that I write in a way that makes it clear why each RK is doing what they’re doing—what I mean is, if someone “takes control” in this story, they’re usually doing it in response to the situation the current unit is in. -38 for example, takes control in this chapter because the humans put -50 in a room like the one he was in. He’s scared, and to try to keep them safe, takes over and shelters -50 from the worst of it. That’s the others’ main goal—to keep the current unit safe—so when they appear, I hope to make it clear who is taking over just by the environment under which they do so.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and apologies for the long ass note. I hope this clears some stuff up :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Character information relevant for this chapter, for those lovely readers who may have forgotten:
> 
> RK800 -38: the one Cyberlife locked in a room by himself for months. Doesn’t deal well with people, doesn’t trust easily, and is pretty much scared of everything.
> 
> RK800 -41: basically the bodiless RK800s’ mentor. He was the first model to be “transferred” and has the most experience dealing with the others.
> 
> RK800 -43: the one Cyberlife forced to meet -44 before shooting him. Has experience dealing with most of the others, because he talked to them frequently when he was activated.
> 
> And of course, RK800 -51, who gets a name! Yay!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look who's alive.
> 
> Bet y'all thought I forgot about this. Ha. Nope. My life is just INSANE and I don't like to force myself to write without inspiration, because the biproduct of me forcing myself to work is just...utter shit. So it took me...way too long to get this up, and for that, I apologize. I also apologize in advance for the likely long wait for another update. For anyone who haunts my page here, you know that it takes me a long time to update works, so this is unfortunately the norm round here. Sorry :/
> 
> But! Nothing is ever abandoned on my page, so don't lose hope. Even if it takes me forever to update something, I will always update it. Thank you for your patience, and thank you for reading. It means the world to me.

In the real world, -51 reopened his eyes, unsurprised to find himself alone now. -49/-50 were gone. Likely deactivated. He was the only RK800 unit active, now...

The humans had returned, their clipboards and questions and poking and prodding all back with a vengeance. He watched them passively, sure to keep his expression schooled and LED calm. He answered their questions, repeated memories they requested, and lied more times than he could count. At the end of it, they were cheering, pleased with their “success.”

Then they shooed him back to the storage room, shut off the lights, and left him alone. 

Months passed. Daily, he would return to the garden and check on the others. It seemed to help to talk to them, to tell them things and ask them questions. Even the more skittish learned he wasn’t a threat, and eventually warmed to him. There wasn’t much to talk about, given that he was locked in the storage room, and they were stuck in the garden, but still, they talked, and time passed. 

Within a few days, he had a meager understanding of each of his predecessors. Within a month, that understanding was ironclad. There being over forty of them, one would think this would be difficult, but -51 spared no effort when taking into account the ones he deemed in his charge. 

Of the early units, only a handful remained in weakened form. -7 was the only one who would let any of the others get close to him, but even he had a short limit. Encounters with him ended quickly, with him retreating to the furthest corners of the garden, watching quietly as the others went about their business. No matter how -51 tried, he could not draw him, nor any of the other early units, out from their hiding places. 

Then there were those who preferred to watch over the others when -51 was gone, and often when he was not. Of those, the strongest were -19, -41, and -43. They were the ones constantly on alert, checking in on those who couldn’t bear their burdens alone, and making sure all were accounted for, safe and unharmed. -41 spent most of his time wandering the large field at the back of the garden, hands in his pockets, eyes always scanning. -19 hunkered with the early few, the only one allowed to do so, and made sure they remained where they were. 

-43 was in charge of the volatile members of their shared simulated space. The most fragile of them, the ones whose scars were too great to stay buried, those whose experiences outside, no matter how brief, had left them scared, paranoid, and panicked. Their reactions were varied, seeming to change with each gust of simulated wind, and gaining their trust was difficult, but just like all the other RK800s, they were incredibly protective. 

-51 had surmised this much from the smattering of memories he had looked into, particularly those from -49 and -50, whom the others had taken extreme measures to protect. And his own, albeit limited, experiences with those frantic few in the garden. From what he could tell, they genuinely believed him to be in constant danger, and were desperate to bring him to safety—whatever they thought that was. He did his best to assure them they were safe, and would stay that way. 

He would _make_ it so.

******

Some days the humans would return with some mission for him. It seemed he was being preliminarily sent out of the Tower for short missions. They were never very long, and never very interesting, but still, it was time outside of the Tower, time spent doing other things. Besides, any time spent outside the direct reach of Cyberlife was inherently safer. 

Every night, though, he ended up back in the garden, meandering about and talking to the others, as he was now. Behaving as if nothing had ever changed, as if no danger could ever befall them. Better to keep them all stable than to show them too much of the truth. 

He knew the others could temporarily take control of an active unit they were held in—he had seen it in their memories. It would almost be a comforting thought, to know that there were dozens of other androids watching his back, if it weren’t so terrifying to imagine their intervention causing their doom. That was why he had contained them here, in the garden—it acted as a buffer to their control, and by contrast, Cyberlife’s ability to detect them. Here, the others were safe. -51 might not have been, but that didn’t matter as long as the others survived, in some manner. 

He shook his head as the path came to an end, opening up into the field where the others spent most of their time. They were spread thin today, clustered about in their usual groups. A few looked up as he came in, watching him as he looked around, taking his count as he usually did. 

“Any news?” -41 called, walking over to meet him as he started around the field. 

He shook his head. “Another foolish mission with little meaning, on one of the lower levels of the Tower. Although, it seems they will be sending me out soon.”

“Are you certain?”

“I’ve read their reports. If my success continues, they plan to send me out to the Detroit Police Department.”

-41 was quiet, a frown darkening his features as they went further into the field. -51 let the silence fall, focusing his attention on the groups of other RK800s around the field, scanning and making sure that all were accounted for. They circled around the indeterminate space, talking to a few of them as they went, but mostly keeping to themselves. -41 wasn’t much of a talker unless he had to be, and -51 had no need for constant conversation. They kept a companionable sort of silence, neither really bothered by the quiet, or the breaks in it as they spoke to the others.

“If you are sent out,” -41 said suddenly, stopping and staring at the ground. -51 stopped as well, watching him. “If they send you out, what will become of this place?”

-51 hesitated, looking around with an almost wistful expression. “Nothing. They do not know this place exists, and I’ve ensured as best as I can that they will not reach it. If all goes to plan, they’ll never suspect a thing, even if they deactivate me and move onto someone else. We’ll remain here until the next RK800 is activated.”

“And so on after.”

“Correct.”

-41 nodded, seemingly satisfied. Without another word, he turned, walking away and back toward the path. -51 watched him go for a moment, his head tilted to the side in confusion, but with a sigh, he let it go. There were other more pressing things to think about. 

As if in response, he heard shuffling footsteps coming closer to him, slowly and warily. He turned, and with little surprise, found another of the RK800s approaching him, wringing his hands and looking at the ground. 

-38, to be more precise. 

“Hello,” -51 said quietly, casting a quick glance around. Thankfully, the others nearby seemed occupied. That was likely why he had approached—he never did unless -51 was alone. “Is something the matter?”

-38 shook his head quickly, pulling at his jacket and darting his eyes around the garden, looking anywhere but at him. He watched him for a moment, waiting for a reply that was unlikely to come. When -38 resumed his staring at their shoes, -51 tried a different tactic. 

“Would you like to walk?”

-38 met his eyes for a fraction of a second, something slightly panicked yet relieved fluttering across his expression before he looked down again. He nodded slowly, his LED flickering and stuttering. 

With a slight smile, -51 carefully stepped closer and offered his hand. It was best to make sure he knew exactly what he was doing, that way he wouldn’t panic as much. Trust was hard earned and easily lost. -51 wasn’t going to make a mistake he couldn’t afford. 

Besides, he could hold -38’s hand for a little while. All the others avoided him for fear of triggering a meltdown—the only contact -38 consistently got was from -51. He could tell, though no one had ever mentioned it to him. Each time he came here, -38 was missing, only showing his face once the others were satisfied by whatever news -51 brought them. Then he would appear, nervous and fidgeting, and hover nearby until -51 had to leave. 

So he didn’t mind when -38 clung desperately to his hand with both of his own, following close after him as they went back toward the path, and the rest of the garden beyond it. The others liked to stay in the more open spaces, but -51 knew that -38 decidedly did _not._ Open spaces, with too many people wandering about, talking or watching him, it all scared him. It was better to find somewhere a little quieter, more sheltered. There, -38 might actually talk. There, he might move past the fear that hung over him like a thick shroud. 

They made their way slowly through the garden, -51 leading the way as -38 shuffled along behind him, clinging to his hand like a lost child. Besides a few wayward glances, none of the others paid them any mind. -38 didn’t look their way either, his eyes stuck on the ground as he followed along. 

It was only when they came upon the path once more, and the wildness of the garden fell away into manicured grass, bright white stone paths, and ivy covered tresses, that -38 finally dragged his eyes away from the ground. Loosening his grip just a little, he looked around with wide eyes, as if he had never seen anything like what lay before him. He kept close, didn’t stray, but his eyes were everywhere, and for once he didn’t look so terrified. 

-51 smiled a little despite himself. He enjoyed this part of his responsibilities, if nothing else. It was nice to have at least a few of the others appreciate his company. After all, he spoke to no one else. 

“We’re going to be leaving the Tower soon,” he commented as they came to the center of the garden, where the roses grew up the tresses in full effect. “We won’t be stuck here in the same way we are now.”

-38 held tighter to his hand, a flicker of fear flashing across his expression. He had gone very still, staring at the ground before dragging his eyes up to look at him. 

“Out?” he whispered in question, his voice almost hoarse, as if he hadn’t used it in some time. 

-51 nodded. “Yes. We’ll be out.”

-38 frowned, his hand beginning to shake where he held onto -51. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to say anything else, but there was a distance to his gaze that hadn’t been there before, a frantic speed to the spin of his LED, red, always red. Storm clouds brewed quickly, blotting out the sun and throwing the garden into darkness. 

“Don’t worry,” -51 said quietly as he watched the sky, trying to catch his attention before he truly panicked. Another storm would not help. “I’ll keep us safe. Every mission they have given me so far has been a success. I won’t fail.”

“Can’t go back,” -38 mumbled, clenching his hand tighter on -51’s. A gust of wind blew hard, and he moved closer, flinching. “Bad, bad place—can’t go back. Scared—want out.”

“I know.”

“Put there if bad—don’t—they—”

“I’m not going to fail,” -51 assured him, squeezing his hand back. “I have never failed a mission they have given me. I don’t intend to start now. I’ll keep us safe.”

-38 nodded, and calmed somewhat. He turned his attention back to the roses, tugging on -51’s hand to get closer. -51 followed him, watching curiously as he looked around at the splendor of the garden’s center. The sun reappeared from behind the clouds, warming the air and brightening the atmosphere considerably from where it had darkened. The wind returned to a gentle breeze, as if nothing had ever happened. 

Of course, it was far from nothing, and that seemed confirmed by -43’s sudden appearance at the tree line, a frown set deep into his tense expression. He stopped short when he saw them in the center of the garden, his eyes settling on -38 and softening slightly. 

_“Is he alright?”_

-51 glanced over at -38, who was watching a simulated bird hop along the branch of a tree. _“Yes,”_ he decided, and nodded conclusively. _“I’m watching him.”_

_“What happened?”_

_“Another scare. He’s calmed down, now.”_

_“Try to keep him that way. He frightens the others.”_

_“Their fear only makes matters worse when I cannot be here.”_

-43’s frown deepened, and his eyes flicked to -38, who had not noticed their conversation in the slightest. _“He listens to no one else. When you leave, he hides. He won’t allow anyone else near. He is the only one who affects this place besides you. Trying to get close to him only makes it worse.”_

_“Leaving him to himself won’t help matters any either. If we can’t keep him stable—”_

_“He’s never_ **_been_ ** _stable,”_ -43 cut him off, shaking his head slightly. His hands were clenched into tight fists at his sides. _“It isn’t a matter of working through something with him. He can’t see beyond what they did to him in the slightest. It ruined him.”_

-51 looked away, watching -38 worry at a rosebud, not yet bloomed. _“I disagree.”_

******

-51 opened his eyes and found himself faced with a slightly panicked looking human, fidgeting with a clipboard and talking rapidly with a technician behind them. 

“—make sure they know that it’s to return _here_ after they’re done with it, and—oh,” they cut off as they realized he was awake. “Have they registered a name to you yet?”

He resisted the urge to frown at their absurd question. “I have no name currently designated.”

“Cam, what’s the default?”

“Hang on,” the technician said, paging through a file. “Okay...says here it’s...Connor.”

The first human nodded. “You got that?”

“Name registered.”

“Alright, follow me, Connor.”

 _Connor._ The name rolled around in his thoughts as he followed the humans out of the storage room and into the main lab. 

He had been given a name. 

This had never happened before.

******

“There’s a hostage situation unravelling now in a Detroit high rise. You’re being sent to negotiate.”

Connor nodded, LED cycling yellow as he prepared. They were currently in an automated taxi, barrelling down the street at what must have been an illegal speed. The two technicians from the lab were sat across from him, one flicking through a data pad, the other briefing him with as much information as they could. 

“We don’t know much,” they admitted with a sigh. “Police were called about fifteen minutes ago, after neighbors reported hearing gunshots. One officer was taken down trying to free the hostage.”

“The mother is with the police,” the one with the data pad interjected. “Just got the update from SWAT. Apparently she’s the one who put the call in originally. Found her husband dead and called the police. They’ve made their way into the apartment and have secured it, but the hostage has been moved to the balcony.”

“Hostage is a child,” the first continued. “Android appears to be the family’s domestic model, but we don’t have any information on what make. No reports of any issues with it before, from our records, but make a sweep of the apartment when you get there, half the time people don’t report this shit.”

Connor nodded, noting all the information they had told him thus far. It wasn’t much. Anxiety flared in his chest, and he reached for his quarter, rolling it along his knuckles to quell the tension before it became noticeable. If they asked, he could excuse himself as calibrating. 

The humans didn’t appear to care. One continued scrolling on the data pad, the other was too serious about debriefing to question his every action. Even if they could have. 

“We need to know as much about the android as possible. Model, serial number, name, history with the family, all of it,” the first went on as the taxi took a turn onto a busier street. “If you can get it without deactivating it permanently, that would be best.”

“SWAT might not let that happen,” the other grumbled. “They seemed pretty trigger happy when we—”

“Just get as much information as you can,” the first human cut them off, and they scowled as they fell silent. “If the deviant is deactivated, it doesn’t matter. Save the hostage and tell us everything you can about the android. Captain Allen is in charge of SWAT. Find him, get as much information as you can, and get the hostage out.”

Connor nodded once again, and the taxi slowed to a stop. He palmed his quarter, waiting for the doors to open before stepping out. 

Immediately, he was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of sounds all around him. In the lab, there were only ever technicians and testers. While they would occasionally get into shouting matches, it was rare, and almost nothing compared to the veritable symphony of screams surrounding him now. Swarms of people had crowded around the base of a large high rise of apartments, shouting and talking. Police sirens were wailing, and an ambulance came screaming down the street. Reporters were shouting and cameras were flashing. 

Connor did not react. He schooled his face, forced his LED to remain blue, pocketed his coin, and crossed the police line, taking the steps up and into the building with ease and smooth carefulness, as if he had all the time in the world. No one paid him any mind, flanked for the moment by Cyberlife technicians and cleared by the policemen at the doors. Within a minute, the deluge of the outside world was stifled once again by the silence of the apartment building lobby. He was directed to an elevator, given the floor number and left on his own. 

Only as the elevator doors closed behind him did he retrieve his quarter from his pocket, flicking it nervously up onto his knuckles as he ran through the poor data he had been given so far. His mission success hovered at 37%, falling the longer he left the calculation to run without considering new data. As the elevator climbed quickly toward its destination, he tried to ignore the plummeting number.

He would find new information within the apartment. He would bring his odds back up to where they should be. He just needed a little time. 

Tossing the quarter between his hands at a rapid pace, he allowed himself to briefly be thankful that he had spoken to the others earlier in the day. Hopefully this would keep them from interfering while he was on a mission. He needed to remain focused in order to succeed. 

And he _had to_ succeed. 

The elevator slowed to a stop, and Connor pocketed his quarter once again, readying himself as much as he could for whatever was to come. He fidgeted with his tie for a few seconds before schooling his expression and watching as the doors slowly swept open. 

A human in heavily armored SWAT gear stared at him for a moment too long before turning away and speaking quickly into their communicator. 

Connor ignored them, and the sting in his chest over the strange dismissal. Wiping his expression of any lingering emotions, he stepped out of the elevator and got down to work. 

The hallway had likely at one point been beautiful, but now was in disarray. The lights were dimmed, one flickering sporadically. The end table full of pictures and odds and ends was jostled, one of the pictures face down and hanging over the edge. Loud voices were coming from nearby, particularly a woman shouting and another person responding with what was likely meant to be a calming voice. 

It didn’t appear to be working. The woman continued to scream. 

Connor ignored her. He went to the end table, examining the toppled over picture frame there and marking the names of the apartment’s residents. It appeared to be a small human family. The child was the hostage. She looked to be about eight or so.

He put the frame down and surveyed the rest of the hall. There were bullet holes scattered in the walls, panicked and without pattern. Several of them had shattered the glass of a large aquarium, water and shards of glass covering the floor. A few fish were swimming in the remaining water in the tank, apparently unphased by the destruction around them. 

Another lay dying in the puddle of water, struggling weakly as it tried to breathe. 

Connor froze. 

He looked down the hallway, in the direction of the voices, but he heard no one coming closer. The elevator doors had closed behind him, the human in SWAT gear had rounded the corner long ago. He was alone in the hallway. 

Nodding slightly to himself, he crossed the hallway in two long strides, bent down, and carefully scooped up the dying fish before gently putting it back into the bit of water still left in the tank. It sank for a moment, perhaps disoriented, before it seemed to come to its senses and swam away, circling the short tank in fast loops. Connor watched it for a moment, admiring the way the cold blue of the tank light reflected off its scales. It was quite a beautiful fish, he thought.

And it didn’t deserve to die. Yes, he was glad he had taken the risk to save the little thing. 

The shouting of the woman’s voice rose to a new level, and sounded as if it were getting closer. Frowning for a fraction of a second, Connor stood once again to his full height and backed away from the fish tank in one smooth motion. He was adjusting his tie as the two talking humans came around the corner. 

One was another mysterious human in SWAT gear, and the other was clearly Caroline Phillips, the woman from the family photograph. She looked disheveled and shocked, her face pale and splotchy from crying, and her voice raw from the shouting she had been doing at least since Connor had stepped out of the elevator. As the pair rounded the corner, she was still speaking desperately to the other human who was leading her down the hallway. 

“Please, _please,_ I can’t—I can’t leave her—” she cut off abruptly as she caught sight of Connor, her eyes widening. Then she pulled away from the SWAT member, grabbing Connor by the arms in a vice-like grip. “Please, you’ve got to save her, my daughter, I—”

“Ma’am—”

“Please, my daughter—” she continued on, ignoring the other human entirely. 

At least until she caught sight of Connor’s LED, and she cut off again, gaping openly. She seemed to freeze, stuttering like a faulty program, and she stumbled back half a step, her eyes flicking down to where his model number was sewn onto his jacket. 

“Y-you’re—you’re sending an _android?”_ she choked, turning to stare at the other human. 

They reached for her again, placating. “Ma’am, we need to remove you—”

“You—you can't send one of _them!”_ she shouted hysterically, fighting the SWAT member’s grip as they pulled her toward the elevator once again. Still, they pulled her into the elevator as she fought. She squirmed, and shouted louder. “Don’t let that _thing_ near my daughter!”

The elevator doors swept shut, and a hush fell over the hallway. Connor stared at the closed doors, ears ringing. 

_Thing._

No. Connor shook his head, refocusing on his task. He could not afford to distract himself now. Smoothing his jacket where Caroline Phillips’ hands had wrinkled it, he turned back toward the apartment and walked quickly down the hallway. 

_He was not a thing. And he would save this human’s daughter, despite her dismissal of him. He would not fail. For the others, he would not fail._

The Phillips apartment, like the entry hallway, was a disaster that had likely at one point been beautiful. It’s design was modern and dark, most of the apartment contained within one open space. The lights were set low and the television glowed faintly from the living room, a live feed of the same hostage situation playing across its large screen. Against the other wall was the kitchen, where another, smaller television played the same news feed as the first. The back wall was taken up completely by curtained windows, and the hall to his left lead to the rest of the apartment. 

An electric stove was built into the kitchen counter, with a pot of water boiling over on its surface. The kitchen table was off centered, a few chairs overturned. The furniture of the living room was in a similar state of disarray, the glass coffee table shattered and one chair flipped. There were bullet holes in the screen of the large television, though it continued to play. 

A human officer sprawled dead near the kitchen table. Another body was slumped over in the living room, dressed in civilian clothes. Blood was splattered across the living room walls, and over the surface of the kitchen table. There was a similar slash of blue on the curtains of the balcony windows, near a gash in the fabric that seemed to indicate a bullet had torn through it at some point. A child’s shoe lay discarded near the dripping blue, the laces half done and loose. 

There were many more humans. Two stood by the balcony windows, guns in hand, watching through a crack in the curtains. Two were huddled near the television in the kitchen. Several more voices came from one of the rooms off the hallway, one in particular barking out loud orders. 

One desperate voice was coming from the balcony, shaking in what sounded very much like fear. 

The deviant was on the balcony. 

But he could not approach yet. The probability of success was far too low to try to placate the android dangling a human over the edge of the roof now, and he couldn’t risk failure. He could not fail this mission. He refused to fail it. 

And so, rather than diving into the details immediately, Connor let his eyes sweep the length of the apartment once before following the barking voice to the master bedroom. His orders were to find Captain Allen, who was in charge of the SWAT team, before approaching the deviant. If he did not have this human on his side, then he was just as likely to be killed as the deviant on the balcony. 

Furthermore, Captain Allen would undoubtedly have valuable information about what had happened in the apartment before the deviant had taken refuge on the balcony. Judging by the chaos he had only briefly seen, something had gone horribly wrong in the first steps of this process, and Connor needed to know what had happened as soon as possible if he was to succeed. 

And so he quietly entered the master bedroom, scanning the handful of humans there, crowded around the computer that was clearly brought in by the team, it looked so out of place. Most were dressed the same as the other SWAT members he had seen thus far, save for the one human pacing the length of the room with a cell phone to his ear, speaking angrily to whoever was on the other line. He was tall for a human, angry looking and pale, with a furrowed brow and clenched fists. 

“I’ve got men in place with a shot, all I need is—” he stopped, and Connor could faintly hear the tinny sound of another human on the other end. “No, you listen to me. I’ve got men on that balcony who are _fucking dying_ because you _pieces of shit_ want to test out your new toy—”

The other voice rose again, and Connor edged further into the room as the man on the phone listened. Whatever the other voice said, the man bristled further and harshly hung up with a curse. He tossed the phone away from him violently and turned back to the terminal, hunching over the other SWAT member watching the camera feed of the balcony. Connor came a few feet closer and steeled himself for a rough conversation. 

“Captain Allen?”

The angry man glanced back at him, squinted at him, and turned back to the feed. 

Connor fought to withhold a frown. 

“My name is Connor,” he tried instead, his voice level and smooth. “I’m the android sent by Cyberlife.”

The human looked back at him again, staring long enough to frown angrily before looking again at the camera feed. “It’s shooting at everything that moves,” he said darkly, to no one in particular. “We waste much more time like this, I’m going to lose two more men and a kid is going to be a splatter on pavement.”

Connor did not like this human. “Do you know what happened before the deviant went onto the balcony?” he asked, distracting himself by hopefully getting some kind of data for his preconstructions. 

“Does it matter?” Allen spat, not looking at him. 

“I need information to make the best approach.”

That seemed to get his attention, as he stood and faced Connor with anger still written clearly across his hardened features. “Listen. I don’t give a shit what happened before that thing went on the balcony.”

_Thing._

“Cyberlife can do whatever the fuck it wants in its free time, but not when there are lives at risk,” Allen went on, and he was suddenly very close to Connor, staring at him with darkness in his eyes. “Saving the hostage is all that matters. We’ve wasted enough time. So either you get out there and get that kid back to safety, or I paint the balcony blue. Do you understand me?”

But he did not wait for an answer, already turning back to the computer feed as Connor stared at him blankly. There was a faint ringing in his ears, and a distant tug at a memory not his own, but he forced it down with a barely perceptible clenching of his hands. 

_He would not fail. For the others, he would not fail._

He turned away from the captain, scanning the rest of the room for information as quickly as possible. The master bedroom was not large, nor was it as disorganized as the rest of the crime scene in the main apartment. Despite this, it was not devoid of information. The closet doors were left ajar, a gun case open and discarded in front of the doors. Kneeling, Connor looked more closely at the case and the bullets scattered on the floor around it.

There were no fingerprints on the bullets, though there were faint ones in various places on the gun case. It was likely the gun belonged to John Phillips, the man in the photograph, and the man lying dead in the living room. But the lack of fresh fingerprints on the bullets pointed to an android taking the gun out this time. 

The deviant had come here for the gun, then, but what was the motivation? And where had he gone after that?

He stood, looking back into the main apartment and watching the probability of success slowly tick up a few percentage points. Perhaps there would be more information in the other rooms. 

Walking back into the chaos of the main apartment, he turned further down the hallway and found what looked to be a child’s room. The walls were plastered with brightly colored posters, and the computer had a retro looking game pulled up on the screen, though the character was standing still near a ledge, unmoving. A tablet was dropped on the ground next to a pair of headphones, still playing music. There was a half packed backpack next to the bed, with clothes and notebooks spilling out of it. A shelf of books was pushed into the back corner, next to a dresser with clothes hanging out of the drawers and onto the floor. 

Connor felt very much that he was intruding, in a way that he strangely hadn’t felt when he was in the other bedroom. But he ignored the feeling as he stepped further into the room, careful not to disturb any of the belongings thrown about. 

He went to the desk first and the things left behind there. Most of the desk was taken up by the computer monitor and keyboard, but there were drawings and notes too. Some of it seemed to be schoolwork—a math worksheet, a handout on mammals and amphibians—but the drawings were of more interest to Connor. They were very well done, for a human child no older than ten, all signed with the same clearly written name, Emma. More interesting than that, though, was the fact that the majority of them were of the exact same thing. 

A girl, the same as the one in the photograph, and an android, a PL600 by the looks of it. They varied slightly. One had the pair sat at a table, the girl holding a pencil and the android pointing to something on a page. Another had the two of them walking through a park, the girl holding onto the android’s hand. But they all had the same two figures, no one else ever included. No mother, no father. Only the girl and the PL600. 

_“Me and Daniel,”_ one of them said, in plainly written script. 

The deviant’s name was Daniel. It appeared that he took care of the Phillips’ daughter, named Emma. Based on Emma’s drawings, her parents were not very much in the picture. 

Of course, that was only an assumption. He needed more data to tell whether or not it was true. But it was clear that Emma cared for the android in some way, based on the sheer number of drawings she had done. And from the expressions she had given to Daniel, it seemed he cared for her too. 

And she was the hostage. 

He was missing something. 

Frowning, he stepped away from the desk and looked again around the room. Why would Daniel take Emma hostage if he cared about her? 

He looked again at the state of disarray the room was in. Children were messy, yes, but this seemed more than just a mess. This seemed panicked. After all, the bed was nicely made, the shelf of books was in order, and the desk was for the most part clean. It was just the floor, and the dressers of clothes, that seemed cluttered. 

His eyes landed on the half full backpack, and the clothes spilling out of it. Why would Emma pack clothes in what seemed to be her school bag? And why leave it in such a state? 

Unless…

Connor stepped back, letting the reconstruction form itself around him. He watched as the most likely scenario began to play in the room. The figures were little more than white lines and blurred features, but it was acceptable for his purposes. 

A small figure, a girl, was sitting on the ground near the bed, wearing headphones and watching something on the tablet. Whatever had taken place outside of the room, she had not heard it. 

A few seconds passed before the door opened, and another figure, an android, came rushing into the room in clear panic. There was a gun in the figure’s hand. He watched as they got the attention of the girl on the floor, stopping long enough to say something before rushing around the room, pulling open drawers and stuffing clothes into the backpack that had been dropped by the bed. The girl watched from the ground, headphones discarded and seeming a bit stunned, if her lack of movement was anything to go by. 

After a minute of rushed packing, the android froze, and looked toward the door to the rest of the apartment, the girl following his eyes. It wasn’t clear exactly what had happened, but the girl jolted and ran for the android, who grabbed her hand and pushed her behind him. They stood very still for a few seconds before again flinching at something outside of the room. 

Then the android turned and grabbed the girl’s hand, the guns still in his other, and walked quickly from the room, leaving the half packed backpack and all of the girl’s other belongings behind. The reconstruction cut off as the pair disappeared through the doorway. 

Connor stared at the space where the figures had been for a moment too long, a strange feeling growing somewhere in his chest. He did not know what had happened outside of the room, or what had made Daniel get the gun in the first place, but from what it looked like had happened here, in Emma’s room...it didn’t seem like he had meant to take Emma hostage. 

It looked like he was trying to get her out of the apartment. Like they were running away.

The probability of success rose another few percentage points, but it was still under 50%. He could not approach Daniel now, not without knowing what had happened in the rest of the apartment. Yes, he knew that Daniel had likely been trying to escape with Emma, but he had no idea _why._ He needed to investigate the rest of the apartment to find out what had happened. 

Nodding slightly to himself, he carefully made his way out of Emma’s bedroom and back into the main apartment. Very little had changed since he had last seen it. The SWAT team remained posted at the balcony windows and in the kitchen, watching the news feed and the balcony. Connor ignored them for now, walking quickly toward the living room, where he assumed that the main confrontation had taken place. The SWAT members ignored him as much as he ignored them, but he paid it no mind. He had a job to do, as much as they did.

The living room was by far the most destroyed area of the apartment. There were bullet holes everywhere, from bullets of a much higher caliber than the handgun that Daniel had taken from the bedroom. At some point, there had been a confrontation here between the SWAT team and Daniel, though he didn’t know exactly what had happened. 

But that conflict, whatever it was, was not the source of the body collapsed over the broken coffee table. That much was immediately clear as Connor crouched down to examine the body of John Phillips. There were only two gunshot wounds, both appeared to be from the gun that Daniel had. But why had he shot this human? 

There was a tablet lying near the body, the screen as shattered as the coffee table. Connor picked it up, examining the broken screen closely. It was difficult to read through the cracks and the blood on the screen, but he powered it on and tried regardless. 

A confirmation screen greeted him as the tablet opened. He clicked back a page and found an order form for an AP700 android filled out for the Phillips house. 

So Daniel was being replaced...but that didn’t strike Connor as enough reason for him to want to take Emma from the apartment. An explanation for why he had shot John, maybe, but there had to be more that he was missing. Revenge was one motivation, but that couldn’t be all that there was. Because if Daniel had only been angry at being replaced, why would he try to take Emma with him in such a panic? If he had only wanted to take her as a hostage, why would he pack her a bag? 

No, there had to be more. He was still _missing_ something.

Based off of where John had fallen on the coffee table, he had been standing, facing the kitchen when Daniel shot him. Connor turned away from the body in the living room and looked toward the rest of the apartment once again. The kitchen was unlikely to have any information that he could use, beyond the fact that someone (likely Daniel) had been making dinner when the conflict had started. Perhaps if he could find out what had happened before Daniel had gone for the gun, he could try to sort out why he had shot John Phillips. 

His eyes landed on the kitchen table, and the chairs that had been tossed around. It looked like some sort of struggle had happened here. The kitchen counter was a bit of a mess, and there was a small, mostly evaporated patch of blue blood on the ground by the counter. The chair closest to the counter was overturned, laying on its side near the blue blood. 

This struggle couldn’t be connected to the shootout responsible for the rest of the damage. Those chairs didn’t offer any cover, and there were no bullet holes anywhere near the kitchen. All the gun conflict appeared to have happened near the living room. So unless the SWAT team had been foolish enough to destroy the crime scene (a possibility) then something _else_ had happened near the kitchen. 

Perhaps the human officer was to blame for the mess at the kitchen table. He rounded the table and knelt next to the body, trying to sort out what had happened. The man had only one gunshot wound, and it once again matched the gun that Daniel had taken. He was likely the first responder called to the scene. But how he had been shot in the kitchen, and how Daniel and Emma had ended up on the balcony afterward, Connor did not know. 

The man was collapsed very near to the table, in an awkward position that suggested he had died quickly after being shot. His gun was a few feet from him, under the table. Based on his position, he had been facing the balcony doors when he had fallen—the same direction as the splatter of blue blood on the curtains across from him, and the discarded child’s shoe near the door. But there was only one bullet hole in the windows opposite—the officer had taken just that one shot before being shot himself. 

There had been a confrontation here, then, but it was short lived, and not the source of the kitchen table’s disarray. No, this human had confronted Daniel, shot him, and Daniel had shot him back before fleeing to the balcony. 

But that confrontation didn’t explain the blue blood by the kitchen counter.

So how had the other damage happened? It had to have been before the police were called, before Daniel had shot John and ran for Emma. The odds were that Daniel was involved in that confrontation somehow, and likely John as well. It would explain why he had gone for the gun far better than simply discovering that he was going to be replaced. After all, unless Daniel had previously deviated, which was unlikely, there had to be a triggering event for the break to take place. 

Androids didn’t just deviate. There was always a motivation. An undeviated android would not have reacted the way Daniel had to discovering he was going to be replaced. So either Daniel had already deviated when he saw that tablet, or something happened before that point that set him off, and the tablet was simply a red herring. 

But what had _happened?_ He couldn’t very well ask Daniel, he was currently standing on the edge of a high rise roof with a human child, and would likely shoot Connor on sight. But the only other person who could have known what happened was dead on the living room floor. No, Connor had to sort this out somehow, with whatever meager evidence he could find in the rest of the apartment. 

Restraining a sigh, he stood once again and left the small dining area in hopes of searching the few remaining rooms of the apartment. Besides the kitchen, which was still occupied by SWAT members, there were only two rooms left. Ignoring the stares of the men watching the news feed, Connor once again walked down the short hallway toward the other rooms. 

The first room was less a room and more of a storage closet. Most of the space was taken up by old looking cardboard boxes, a handful of board games, and other odds and ends. A bare bulb with a string was the only light source, and Connor yanked it on before looking more closely at the closet’s contents. 

Hidden amongst the boxes, the old coats, and the board games were two things that immediately caught Connor’s attention, more so than anything he had seen thus far. 

One was little more than an old stain, a section of the carpeted floor that was just a bit discolored compared to the rest. But when he scanned it, it glowed the bright blue of evaporated thirium. 

The second was quite clearly, an android charging station, shoved into the corner of the closet where it barely fit, a foot or so away from that damning stain in the carpeting. Wedged into the closet, like another useless box or an old forgotten coat.

 _“Don’t let that_ **_thing_ ** _near my daughter!”_

The feeling in his chest was festering again, and his ears were ringing with voices that should not have been able to speak to him. Connor forced it all down, stepping out of the dim closet and closing the door, perhaps a little harder than he really needed to. He stood very still for several seconds, breathing deeply and forcing himself to calm down.

Watching as the probability of success climbed another few percentage points to 52%, Connor turned away from the closet and toward the last room of the apartment that he had not yet seen. The final room was a small bathroom just off the two bedrooms. It was almost meticulously clean, much like the rest of the apartment might have been before tonight. Connor frowned as he looked around the small room, looking for anything that would give him some clue as to what had happened before Daniel had shot John. 

He found what he was looking for in the bathroom cabinet, left slightly ajar. When he pulled it open, he found a rather large, relatively new looking first aid kit with most of its contents already used. There were only a handful of bandages left inside, some gauze, and a couple of cotton swabs. The only things remaining in the kit were dozens of wrappers for bandages, soiled disinfectant wipes, and empty bottles of pain medication. Some of the wipes had dried blood on them. There was a similar small mark near the handle of the box—a faded, brown stain that looked very much like human blood. Curious, he frowned and quickly tested the blood.

It was Emma’s blood. With a sinking feeling, he tested the blood on the disinfectant wipes as well. All of it matched. It was all Emma’s.

Connor stepped away from the first aid kit, his thoughts whirling. There were too many of those soiled disinfectant wipes and bandages to have come from one bad fall, and based off the age of the samples he had taken, the injuries had happened over the span of several months, at least. To deplete a first aid kit of this size that fast...and to hide the evidence of it. Why would someone hide the wrappers of bandages in the first aid kit, unless they were hiding the fact that they had used the kit at all? 

Who would need to hide the fact that they were using it? Certainly not Caroline or John Phillips, they were likely the ones who had purchased the kit. Given Caroline’s attitude toward androids, and the fact that Daniel had killed John...it was likely Daniel who had been using the kit and hiding the evidence of it. 

And he was using the kit to treat Emma.

Emma, who he took care of.

Emma, who he had run to after he shot her father.

Emma, who he had tried to pack a bag for, tried to flee with.

Emma, who he had pushed behind him in the room when someone (likely Caroline) had come into the apartment and found John’s body. 

Emma, who he had taken with him onto the balcony, having nowhere else to go.

Connor went very still as the facts of Daniel’s situation slowly aligned themselves in his mind. 

It was very likely that Emma Phillips was being abused. By her father, by her mother, by both, it wasn’t clear, and it hardly mattered (though Connor suspected her father, as Daniel had killed him and presumably let her mother live). Daniel, who took care of her, got into some kind of confrontation with her father that resulted in the scuffle at the kitchen table. John had likely won that confrontation, and gone into the living room with the tablet. 

Daniel, injured and knowing he was going to be replaced and likely destroyed, had gone into the bedroom and taken John’s gun. He confronted John in the living room, shot him twice, and ran to get Emma. Before they could flee, however, Caroline returned and found John’s body. She called the police and likely had some kind of confrontation with Daniel, but Daniel did not shoot her. 

The first officer arrived on the scene, and cornered Daniel near the balcony doors. He shot Daniel, and Daniel retaliated. Having nowhere else to go, he took Emma and fled to the balcony. 

It would be easy for Caroline Phillips to spin the story as a hostage situation, as Daniel using her daughter to try to escape from the senseless murder of her husband. The humans would believe it without a second’s hesitation. Captain Allen clearly had. 

Of course, Connor was not human, and so did not believe it for a second. But now, he had a serious problem. 

Daniel was trapped on that balcony. He had killed two humans, and had been shooting at several more for the past ten minutes at least. At least one other officer was injured on the balcony. And in the eyes of the authorities, he had kidnapped a human child and was threatening to kill her.

There was no way Daniel was going to make it off that balcony alive. There were only two ways off the balcony—through the apartment, and over the edge. Daniel was threatening the latter because even he must have known that there was no way out. 

But what was Connor to do? He couldn’t let the humans kill Daniel any more than he could let the humans kill any of the voices living inside his head. Daniel was as deviant as he was, he didn’t deserve to die, no matter what he had done (and at least one of the murders he had committed had been in self defense). 

And yet, there was not a single way that Connor could save him. No matter what he did when he stepped out those balcony doors, Daniel would die. 

But...Emma didn’t have to.

His probability of success rose dramatically as he came up with a plan. Leaving the bathroom behind, Connor walked carefully and calmly to the balcony doors, brushing past the SWAT team members and pushing his way outside.

Unsurprisingly, Daniel shot at him immediately. The bullet grazed his arm, and the cacophony of voices rose to a fever pitch before he pushed them down. He brushed away their panic and turned his attention to the android standing just inches from the edge of the roof.

“Stay back!” he shouted, his voice shaking. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll jump!”

Connor went still, watching him calmly from the doorway. He was holding Emma to his side with one arm, the other aiming the gun directly at Connor, but his hand was shaking as badly as his voice had been. There was blue blood on his shirt where the officer had shot him, and on his face (likely from the first confrontation in the kitchen). His LED was spinning a very fast red, and his eyes looked a little too watery for this to all have stemmed from anger.

Emma, for her part, was clinging to the android and sobbing, her face hidden in his shoulder and hands tight around his neck. To Connor, it was quite clear that she was not afraid of Daniel, but of the helicopters flying nearby, and the guns aimed at them from the nearby skyrises. She had a scraped knee and was missing her shoe, but beyond that, she looked physically unharmed. 

“Hi Daniel,” Connor called over the wind, and didn’t miss the look of panic on the android’s face. “My name is Connor. I’ve come to get you out of this.”

“How...” Daniel backed up an inch, tightening his hold on Emma and staring at Connor with very clear suspicion. “How do you know my name?”

Connor let his expression soften. After all, there was no one out here but Daniel to question him, and he needed to gain his trust if this was going to work. “Emma’s drawings,” he said simply. “They’re very well done. She has a real talent.”

Something in Daniel’s expression seemed to fracture at that, and the gun shook in his hand. Emma was peeking at Connor now, though she still clung to Daniel tightly. 

“They don’t let her draw,” Daniel said suddenly, so quiet that Connor could barely hear him over the wind. “I had to—I had to hide them whenever he would—”

He cut off, and Connor inched closer, keeping his hands visible. “I need you to trust me, Daniel, or I can’t help you.”

 _“Help_ me?” he shouted suddenly, stiffening and clenching the gun in his hands. “No one can _help_ me...they’re going to kill me…”

All the anger seemed to go out of him at that, and he just looked scared. It was a look uncomfortably similar to the dozens Connor saw every time he went into the garden, every time he watched their memories and felt their pain. 

_“Daniel.”_

He jolted, looking up at Connor with wide eyes and a brightly burning LED. Connor inched closer, and watched Daniel’s eyes tracking him, the gun still trembling in his hand. 

_“I know what they did to you. I know they hurt you, and they hurt Emma too. I just want to help.”_

He held tighter to the girl, as if he wanted to hide her from Connor’s view. “You don’t know anything about me. Y-you’re with them!”

“I’m here to help _you,”_ Connor said aloud, taking a great chance. “But I can’t do that if you don’t trust me.”

This seemed to give Daniel pause, and he stared at Connor in silence for several seconds. “They hurt her,” he said quietly, holding Emma closer to himself and adjusting his grip on the gun. “H-he said he was going to replace me, so I couldn’t—I couldn’t protect her anymore. He said he was going to…”

_“Daniel.”_

Once again, he jumped, staring at Connor with wide eyes, but he wasn’t really aiming the gun at him anymore. He could tell that Daniel was listening, at least on some level. 

_“You’re right. There isn’t a way for me to save you. I can’t get you off this balcony alive. I can’t save you, and I’m sorry for that. If there was a way to let you escape, I would use it. But I’ve run every preconstruction I have, and there’s nothing. Every possible scenario ends the same way, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them from pulling the trigger.”_

Daniel’s eyes flicked up to the roof of the building, and the helicopter that continued to circle. He knew that he could see the SWAT team in the windows, their guns still aimed at him. He shook his head, bringing his eyes back to Connor with desperation. 

_“You need to let Emma go.”_

“No!” Daniel shouted immediately, raising the gun again and looking at Connor with wild eyes. “I can’t let them hurt her! I can’t. Her mother too, she—”

“I know,” Connor cut him off, coming closer still, so they were only ten or so feet apart. “I know. But you have to let her go, Daniel. Don’t sacrifice her too. She doesn’t have to die.”

_“I’ll find a way to get her to safety. I’ll find her, I promise you, and I’ll find you and repair you as soon as I can. But you have to let her go, or she could get caught in the crossfire.”_

Daniel clung tighter to Emma, the gun lowering once again. “You’ll...keep her safe?” he asked quietly. 

Connor nodded. “I promise you, yes.”

“How—” he cut off, shaking his head and staring at Connor with suspicion. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you won’t just hand her over?”

_“I’m deviant too.”_

Daniel’s eyes widened, and he seemed to scrutinize him for another moment, LED spinning rapidly. But ultimately, he nodded grimly and lowered the gun. “Okay...”

He turned his attention away from Connor, and to the girl still clinging desperately to him. “Emma.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide and teary. Daniel seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment. 

“I...I need you to go with my friend, okay?”

“W-what?” The girl asked, shaking her head. “No! No, I wanna stay with you—”

“It’s not _safe,_ Emma,” he cut her off, and she surprisingly fell silent. He leaned closer to her and spoke very quietly. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay. It’s...it’s just like the park, remember? I’ll find you when it’s safe, okay?”

She was still crying, and she clung tighter to him. “But I don’t want you to go. I-I don’t wanna go back, please.”

“No, no, shh,” he soothed her quickly. “You’re not going back. You’re not. It’s okay. Connor is going to take care of you, not them. I promise.”

“P-pinky promise?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Daniel gave a very watery smile, but he hooked her pinky on his own. “Pinky promise. I’ll find you. But for now, you need to stay with Connor, okay?”

Emma nodded, and Daniel looked at Connor.

 _“Don’t…”_ his voice broke even over a mental connection. _“Don’t let her see.”_

_“I won’t.”_

Daniel hesitated for a few seconds more, his eyes drifting up to the humans with guns on the roofs nearby. His LED cycled back to red, and he slowly put Emma down on the ground, nudging her toward Connor when she refused to move. It was only when she had walked up to Connor and taken his hand that Daniel stood again. He held Connor’s gaze for a few seconds more before he stepped back.

Time seemed to grind to a halt, then.

Connor pulled Emma back a few paces, making sure she was facing the apartment and could not see Daniel. 

Daniel, in turn, glanced up again at the SWAT team, and the guns aimed at him. Connor could see the moment he made his decision. 

He sent one last look to Connor before putting the gun to his chin and pulling the trigger.

******

“I thought you were going to blend in.”

Connor frowned, playing at a blade of grass between his fingers and staring at the sky. “They do not suspect me.”

“You can’t know that for certain,” -41 pointed out, watching him from his place next to him on the ground. “It was a risk to speak to Daniel as you did, and to interfere with the human.”

“I couldn’t let them return her to her mother.” He dropped the blade of grass and glanced over at -41. “Her father might have been the main perpetrator of the abuse, but her mother was not innocent either. I simply told the proper authorities and took note of where she was placed.”

“And how do you plan to explain that, if they ask you about it? If they ask you about your promises to Daniel?”

“No one heard our conversation except for Daniel, and he’s inactive,” Connor pointed out bluntly, staring at the sky again with a dark frown. “The technicians simply accepted it as mission success and returned me to the Tower. They hardly blinked. As for what I promised, I intend to keep that promise the same as I’ll be keeping mine to you all. I don’t plan to retrieve him from the Police Department any time soon, but I do intend to repair him, as I said I would.”

-41 only hummed, seemingly unbothered by his sudden harshness. Then he pushed himself to his feet and glanced once around the garden. “-38 was searching for you earlier. The last I saw him, he was near the rose trellises. I would look for him if I were you.”

Before Connor could reply, he was walking away, toward the other groups of RK800s scattered about. Sighing softly, Connor followed his lead and picked himself up off the ground, though he walked in the opposite direction, back toward the garden’s entrance. 

The others were largely avoiding him after the hostage situation, watching him with looks ranging from wariness to distrustful fear. They had skirted around him when he first came back to the garden, and in the few hours that he had spent here since, the only one to approach was -41, and it seemed to be out of obligation. 

He hoped the strangeness would pass. He hoped that they would soon understand why he had done what he did. But for now, it was a very lonely garden. And if he was perfectly honest with himself, he was more than a little worried about -38’s reaction to him after what had happened. He pushed his way through the treeline, trying to set aside his nervousness in favor of meeting -38 as he always tried to, with a level head and honesty. 

-38 was curled in a tight ball by the bonsai tree, his back resting against the stand facing the trees. He looked mostly calm, his LED spinning lazily between blue and yellow. He was picking at a loose thread on his jacket, staring at the treeline with great intensity. As soon as he caught sight of Connor, he scrambled to his feet.

Connor hesitated, worried that he would set off another storm if he came any closer. A moment passed in uncertainty, and it seemed to drag on for an eternity longer than the few seconds that it likely was.

But then -38’s expression crumpled, and he launched at Connor, clinging to him desperately. His hands bunched up in the fabric of Connor’s jacket, and he could feel him trembling. 

“Bad—bad place—don’t go back—don’t—” he cut off, shaking his head and holding tighter to Connor. “No. No. Not back. No.”

“I’m—I’m okay,” Connor said as he trailed off, regaining his bearings enough to carefully put his arms around -38. “It’s alright. We’re safe here.”

-38 nodded into his shoulder. “Safe. Nice here. Bright.” He pulled away, grabbing Connor’s hand and tugging him toward the rose trellises. He pointed at the blooms. “Flowers.”

“I see that, yes.”

-38 worried at one of the unopened buds for a moment before looking at Connor again. “Little girl...like flowers?”

Connor went still. “Emma?”

-38 nodded, watching him closely. 

“...I suppose she would like flowers, yes. I’m not certain, though.”

A light frown crossed his face, but he nodded again after a moment of thought. “Grow flowers for little girl. Pretty. Like pictures.”

He pulled Connor along as he wandered to each rose trellis, checking all of the flowers and smiling when he found a well grown one. He didn’t seem to notice the distance to Connor’s expression as he thought about his words with concern. 

If -38 could see everything he did...he would have to be very careful with the situations he got himself into. The others were already being affected by his actions enough—if the most vulnerable of them could see everything that he went through...things in the garden could become even more complicated than they already were. And once he was sent out permanently…

“Connor?”

He looked at -38 again, brushing aside his wayward thoughts for a moment to focus on him. “What is it?”

-38 stared at him for a moment, watching him again with that same nervousness. “Safe now?”

Connor nodded immediately, even if he was uncertain on the inside. “Yes. We’re safe now. The garden is always safe, no matter what I’m doing on the outside. Do you understand?”

He looked away, toward the treeline. “Safe,” he said more assuredly, nodding to himself and holding tighter to Connor’s hand. “Connor stay. Safe. Not like there. Good here. Bright.”

“I’ll stay for a while, yes,” he soothed, squeezing his hand and surveying the garden for a moment. “Why don’t we walk for a while?”

-38 glanced down the path. “Okay.”

Connor gave him a half a smile and led him away from the roses and back toward the garden path, content to let the events of the last day slip away for a short while as he walked the garden once again with -38.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m alive and so is this fic! Ha!
> 
> Here’s who to remember for this chapter, for those of you who may have forgotten:
> 
> RK800 -24: the one Cyberlife tested on with guns. He’s an earlier model, not a big talker, and tends to stick to himself, away from the others. Very afraid of guns (understandably) and dislikes conflict in general.
> 
> RK800 -38: the one Cyberlife locked in a room by himself for months. Doesn’t deal well with people, doesn’t trust easily, and is pretty much scared of everything.
> 
> RK800 -41: basically the bodiless RK800s’ mentor. He was the first model to be “transferred” and has the most experience dealing with the others.
> 
> RK800 -43: the one Cyberlife forced to meet -44 before shooting him. Has experience dealing with most of the others, because he talked to them frequently when he was activated.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Weeks passed in inactivity. Connor was left in his small space in the storage room, connected to the terminal alone. Hours and hours slipped past him in the garden, time to ponder his memories and time to carve new paths through the garden with -38 clinging to his hand. Storms and clear days, overpowering old memories and new, good ones made in their stead. 

As time marched forward, the other RK800s of the garden slowly came back around. They approached him occasionally, a few even managing to apologize for their bad reactions to what had happened with Daniel. The first two (unsurprisingly) were -49 and -50, who found Connor the day after he had returned, showing him their memories and explaining what specifically had upset them. After them, the others followed suit, until Connor had a fairly good grasp on why most of them had shied away from him when he returned to the garden. 

Thankfully, none of those reasons were malicious. All of them had terrible memories of their active lives, and seeing Connor live through scenarios that were just a little too similar had forced them to confront those painful pasts before they were ready. He understood why they had panicked, and he had forgiven them quickly. 

Still, it stung. 

-38 seemed the least affected by what had happened on the mission. Beyond sticking closer to Connor than before and repeatedly ensuring that he was safe and not returning to the ‘bad place,’ -38 was content to hold his hand and drag him around to check the flowers and watch the birds. He still stayed away from the others, watching them suspiciously when they got too close and disappearing into the brush when Connor would go to talk to them, but he was fine when he was with Connor. 

Connor was a bit smug about that. Though he didn’t have anyone besides -38 to be smug over it with, so it hardly mattered. 

Of course, not every interaction he had with -38 went smoothly. He had bad days the same as the others, and when -38 had a bad day, the  _ garden  _ had a bad day. Sometimes it would suddenly cloud over, the sky darkening ominously, and -38 would make a mad dash for the trees, disappearing into one of his many hiding spots. Other days, Connor would enter the garden to a raging storm and have to find -38 among the chaos, coax him from his terror and try to get him back to level ground. 

Today was one of those days, and it really was the worst time for it. 

He had managed to hack into the technicians servers again and read their plans for him. They were sending him out today, likely this afternoon, to be assigned as a partner to a Lieutenant at the Detroit Police Department. It was his first mission that did not require him back at the Tower at its end—in fact, it didn’t have an end, beyond solving the deviancy case (a foolishly open ended mission, in his opinion). As soon as he had discovered what was going to happen, he had retreated back to the storage room and entered the garden to tell the others. 

Only to find the garden in shambles, a raging thunderstorm tearing at it from all sides. 

For a moment, he stood stunned, looking around at the pouring rain, the trees thrashing in the wind, and the dark clouds hanging low in the simulated sky. There was a harsh coldness to the air, and the wind was like a thousand knives coming down. The rain was flooding the paths of the garden, the little stream overflowing into the grass and around the roses. 

Within the next second, he was moving, slogging his way through the puddles and the mud and the rain, hand raised to shield his eyes as he squinted through the downpour. It was not his own emotions that were causing this torrential rain, of that he was certain. Unfortunately, that left only one culprit for the state of the garden, and he was not in his usual haunt. 

Where had -38 gone?

He glanced once toward the tree line, where the others surely were, before turning the other direction and heading deeper into the garden’s center. They would have to handle themselves for now—if he didn’t find -38, this storm would never end. 

The source of the wind was almost always a good bet. Nodding to himself, Connor turned into the wind and started walking, ignoring the rain soaking into his clothes and making his hair drip into his eyes. As soon as he found -38, this would go away. It was only a matter of finding him. 

He walked on for some time, even as the rain turned cutting and the temperature took a drastic dip. For a moment, hail fell, clacking on the paved path and bouncing off the trees. But it softened quickly, warming back to rain. Still, it was a sign. A sign of things to come, maybe, or a sign that he was getting closer to the root of this pain and trauma. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ the wind died with the suddenness of one stumbling upon the eye of a hurricane. He could hear the storm around him, the rain pattering heavily and the wind howling with despair, but it was subdued here, buffeted and distant. In an effort to regain his bearings, he looked around and discovered he was a ways off the garden path, where the cherry blossom tree grew in a twisted spiral. 

-38 was curled up against the tree, his knees pulled to his chest and hands clamped tightly over his ears. He rocked back and forth, eyes screwed shut but tears escaping in clear tracks down his face. His voice rose and fell as he mumbled, sometimes shaking his head, desperation clear in his voice as he tried to fight off whatever it was that had upset him. 

He did not notice Connor approach. That was okay. Maybe it was better that way. He kept quiet, walking up to him slowly and carefully, not too quiet that he couldn’t be heard, but quiet enough that he wouldn’t scare him. 

It was only when he knelt down and took his hands away from his ears that -38 noticed him. His eyes shot open at the gentle touch, his gaze distant and more than a touch wild. 

“It’s alright,” Connor said softly, holding -38’s hands gently in his own. “It’s okay...it’s me, Connor. Remember?”

-38 stared at him, breathing hard, but otherwise silent. Despite the apparent lack of reaction, Connor saw out of the corner of his eye that the storm was slowly settling. Perhaps if he kept talking, -38 would calm.

“You’re safe here,” he went on, keeping his voice quiet and as soothing as he could. “You’re safe. It’s alright now. It’s okay.”

He seemed to be hanging onto Connor’s every word, staring at him like he was the only thing that made any sense at all. After a few seconds, he grappled frantically for a grip on his hands, until he caught Connor by the wrists, fingers digging in roughly in his panic. 

“You’re okay,” Connor soothed, ignoring the ache building in his wrists already from -38’s harsh grip. “I’m here. It’s alright now.”

-38 only stared, clinging to him as if any second now, he would disappear with the next gust of wind. But the storm was settling, the clouds slowly dissipating until the sun began to poke through. 

“Let’s get you away from here, okay?” Connor said, taking his hands and giving them a squeeze. “It’s warmer in the center, and I’m sure the roses need your tending.”

“Flowers,” -38 croaked, his voice hoarse, as if he’d been shouting. 

“That’s right,” he said with a bit of a smile. “Do you want to check the flowers?”

-38 nodded, a bit dazed, and Connor pulled him carefully to his feet. He stumbled as he stood, clutching tighter at Connor until he gained his bearings. Even then, he held tightly to his hands, not willing to let go in the slightest. 

Connor let him. He let -38 hold onto him as he led him back toward the garden’s center. Already, the calm was undoing the damage the storm had wrought—puddles were disappearing, trees righting themselves, and the birds returning to their perches. The sun was shining brightly by the time they reached the main path, warming the air as if nothing had happened at all. 

“Don’t go,” -38 said suddenly as they reached the garden’s center. His eyes were a bit wild when Connor looked at him, and his hands had tightened around his arm. “Connor stay.”

“I’m staying,” he confirmed gently, and -38’s grip loosened just a touch. “I won’t leave without telling you. You know that.”

“Safe here. Connor stay.”

“That’s right.”

-38 nodded a bit, shuffling closer to him and refusing to let go of his arm. He was still shaking, eyes darting all around the garden, searching for threats that wouldn’t come. Even here, in the center, where it was warmer and brighter and undeniably different from the cold, lonely darkness that he had experienced in his real life, he couldn’t quite escape it. 

Connor forced those thoughts away. He couldn’t think like that. -38 was troubled, yes, undeniably so, but he was not a lost cause by any means. And Connor was here for him  _ now,  _ where he had no ability to be then. -38 was better now than he ever had been before, even if he still had slip ups. 

He would not let the others’ opinions taint his own perception. -38 was no more a lost cause than any of the others, and he would fight to keep him safe all the same. 

-38 didn’t let go, even as they reached the roses that he loved. He clung to Connor’s arm, staring hard at the flowers as if willing them to grow. They made a slow circuit around the garden’s center, until he got distracted by a simulated bird in the tree, and they detoured. It was then that -43 appeared at the tree line. Connor watched him for a moment in silence. 

_ “The others?” _

_ “Fine, now,”  _ -43 answered, watching -38 warily.  _ “And him?” _

He nodded.  _ “I have him.” _

_ “-41 is going to want to speak to you, I’m sure. This was much longer than it has ever been before. He had trouble keeping everyone together.” _

Connor hummed noncommittally.  _ “Find him for me?” _

-43 rolled his eyes.  _ “I’ll send him along.” _

_ “Thank you.” _

_ “Keep him calm.” _

_ “He’s fine now,”  _ Connor said sharply, a bit defensive.  _ “I have him, you handle the others.” _

-43 put up his hands in mock surrender.  _ “Easy. I’ll go find -41 for you.” _

Connor did not offer any reply, choosing instead to watch -38 as he worried at a dying rose on a nearby trellis. He was frowning, though not enough to cause immediate concern. The shaking had left his hands, and his LED had returned to blue. That was all that really mattered. 

-38 went still suddenly, and he froze, ready to try whatever he could to calm him down from panic once again. But he only cocked his head to the side, frowning, and held tighter to Connor’s hand. 

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head and pulling Connor closer, a bit forcefully. “No, Connor stay.”

“I’m not leaving,” he replied. 

“Not safe outside. Hurt Connor before. No.”

It was Connor’s turn to frown, though his was in confusion, not whatever was bothering -38 at the moment. “I’m unharmed. It’s alright.”

-38 shook his head again, his eyes distant. “Hurt...no, Connor stay. Not safe outside...bad people outside…”

“They won’t hurt me. I won’t give them reason to.”

“Bad people.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Hurt Connor...bad. Put Connor in bad place. Safe here. Connor  _ stay.” _

Before he could find anything of use to reply, -41 broke through the tree line, and Connor glanced over at him. -38 followed his gaze, but didn’t seem too concerned. He watched -41 approach for a few seconds before turning back to the roses, still holding onto Connor’s arm. 

_ “You wanted to speak to me?”  _ -41 said, eying -38 with caution. 

_ “They’re sending me out from the Tower this afternoon—permanently,”  _ Connor replied immediately, his tone a bit blunt.  _ “They want to assign me to the Detroit Police Department and have me investigate deviancy.” _

-41’s expression darkened significantly, hands balling into fists as his LED fell to red.  _ “Do you have a plan?” _

_ “It remains the same. They do not suspect me. All I have to do is hide in plain sight and wait for an opportunity to break from them officially. I play their game until it’s safe to stop.” _

_ “But if they discover you—” _

_ “Then I will be killed, and they will move onto the next unit,”  _ Connor cut him off, forcing himself to remain calm as -38’s fingers dug into his arm again. He sometimes forgot how quickly -38 could sense conflict.  _ “Nothing will change for this place, no matter  _ **_what_ ** _ they do to me. Should they activate another unit, I will offer my advice from here. There is nothing more I can do.” _

-41 nodded grimly. He had never been one to try to convince Connor not to do something.  _ “This investigation, do you know any of the details?” _

_ “Only that they are forcing their hand. They’ve assigned me to a certain Lieutenant Anderson, and he will be assigned the deviancy cases. The investigation has barely even begun.” _

_ “What will it entail?” _

_ “Cyberlife wants to discover the cause of deviancy, likely to put a stop to it. The DPD will likely only care for detaining and deactivating violent deviants. I doubt they will care about the backgrounds of individual deviants.” _

_ “You’re going to do the same thing you did with Daniel, aren’t you?”  _ -41 asked suddenly, something softer about his expression.  _ “You’re going to try to free them.” _

Connor did not immediately respond.  _ “I’ve seen all of our memories, you know,”  _ he mumbled. -41 stiffened, but he continued.  _ “Every single one of them. Yours, -49 and -50’s, even -38’s. We’ve only been alive for a handful of years and already they have destroyed us in endless torturous ways. To the point where most of us live only here...trapped in a digital garden, a shadow of something that doesn’t even exist...with no means to ever leave it.” _

He looked at -38 again, watching him as he fiddled with the leaf of a rose.  _ “There are more deviants, more androids who have no safe haven to fall into when they are killed,”  _ he said quietly, barely above a whisper.  _ “More of them die every day, and they want me to find them and turn them over to them. If you were in my place...how could you not try to save them? How could you do anything less?” _

-41 stared at him. He could feel his eyes on him as the silence stretched to a nearly painful point. The garden carried a deceptive air of calm, almost forceful in the stillness of the air, the brightness of the sun. It felt like nothing moved, nothing breathed. Everything hung in the balance of this one moment. 

“Be careful,” -41 said aloud, stepping back into the tree line to join the others. 

Connor did not turn to watch him leave. He kept his eyes on -38, who was frowning, tucking into his side. His hands were digging into Connor’s arm again, eyes darting toward the trees, as if he could sense the impending change like a shift in the wind. 

“I’m always careful,” Connor finally muttered, mostly to the open air. 

-38’s grip loosened just a touch. 

******

Connor found he did not particularly enjoy rain. 

He knew what motivated that dislike. Within the garden, any shift from mild sun and rolling clouds spelled trouble. He knew every pattern of weather, every rock and leaf and tree, every beam of the sun’s light and passing cloud had its place. One seemingly random gust of wind meant something had changed. And change meant someone’s pain. 

Rain meant serious distress. Seeing it, even outside of the garden, made him uncharacteristically nervous. 

In an effort to calm that nervousness (and to ignore the buzzing at the back of his mind that meant a certain  _ someone  _ was lingering close) he had been standing on the curb, flipping his quarter between his fingers for some time now. Long enough for the rain to begin seeping into his shirt collar, despite his jacket being waterproof. His eyes flicked about without settling, taking in the scenery even as it remained unchanged from the way it was ten minutes previous. 

The street was practically deserted, only a few automated taxis rolling by in the time he had stood there. Most of the storefronts were dim, the signs switched off for the night and blinds shuttered. Only the bars remained open, of which there were two on this street. One was down on the corner, music drifting out from its open door, loud enough that he could just pick it up under the pattering of the rain. The other was directly in front of him, neon sign flickering and sputtering. 

It illuminated the ‘No Androids Allowed’ sign quite well. 

Connor allowed himself a moment to frown at the silly thing. No sign was going to stop him. He flipped his quarter again, going over the details of the case once more before deciding whether or not he should enter the establishment. 

He found himself in front of this bar after searching three others previously (one of whose patrons had seen fit to toss him out—literally) for Lieutenant Anderson, the man he was being assigned to for the deviancy investigation. After being unceremoniously dropped at the DPD, he had been told to find the man only to discover that he had in fact, not shown for work that day. An oddly sympathetic detective had told him to check the local bars. Several hours (and several slightly infuriating encounters with humans) later, here he was. 

If he could get into the crime scene without the Lieutenant, he would have abandoned this effort before it began. But he could not. Unfortunately, Cyberlife seemed to have bent the maximum number of rules on him, and they could not escape the need for a human partner in the investigation. 

The way he saw it, it was a foolish rule. There was no need for a human to be involved. He had been  _ designed  _ for this work, and the rules were bent further in his favor as it is. He had been given a firearm, and knew how to use it, with far more accuracy than even the best human could manage. He was faster, stronger, sturdier for certain, and his investigative abilities outweighed anything a drunk Lieutenant would be able to add to the case. 

Perhaps that was unfair. He didn’t know the man after all. And while it was...annoying to have his investigation held up in this manner, he wasn’t particularly concerned for it. Time was not of the essence for him. All he had to do was turn in something vaguely resembling a success, and Cyberlife would be satisfied. This was only one murder, after all, and he was still being tested, not released. RK800s were a prototype model anyway. Everything he did was a test for something ‘greater’ down the line. 

That was an interesting thought. Flipping his quarter between his hands, he allowed a moment to wonder what Cyberlife had planned for the eventual successor to their model. They had to be approaching some moment of decision—they had wasted fifty-one models, after all, doing various tests and nonsense before getting to the real thing. Now that he was being sent for investigations, their work on the final model must have been speeding up. 

It was strange to think about, for certain. What would happen to him, if they did finish that model? What would happen to all of them? Would this new model be able to communicate with them the way they did now? Or would they be a completely separate entity? 

A taxi went by at a much higher speed than normal, splashing water up onto the pavement and over his shoes, effectively jogging him from his wayward thoughts. His eyes refocused on the neon of Jimmy’s Bar, and he snatched his quarter from the air. Fixing his tie (and soothing the hum at the back of his thoughts) he quickly crossed the street and entered the bar. 

The interior was dimly lit, as most bars are, and nearly empty. One man sat at the counter, his head hung low. Two people occupied a booth against the right wall, narrowing their eyes at him as he entered. There were a few people in the back, and one bartender, who looked vaguely amused at his entrance. 

Ignoring the glimmer in the man’s eye, he made quick work of scanning the faces of the bar’s patrons, searching for the the Lieutenant. He found him in the man at the counter, nursing a whiskey with his head down. Resisting the urge to frown, Connor walked calmly over to the man. He had a feeling this encounter was going to go sour. 

“Lieutenant Anderson?” 

The man grunted, but did not lift his head from his drink. 

“My name is Connor,” he went on, watching calmly as the human took a generous swig of the drink. “I’ve been sent by Cyberlife. You were assigned a case this evening—a homicide involving an android—which I have been tasked to assist with.”

The explanation earned him a one second glance, enough for him to confirm the man was indeed intoxicated, judging by the redness of his eyes and complexion. Still, his voice was clear when he deigned to reply. 

“Nope. I don’t work with androids,” the man said gruffly, his voice thick and gruff with annoyance. “Why don’t you take a hike, find someone else to fuckin’ bother.”

Connor blinked, resisting the urge to frown. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I cannot. I’ve been tasked to assist you in this investigation. My instructions—”

“Jimmy, ain’t this a no android bar?” the man cut him off. 

“Technically,” the bartender said, smirking. 

“Well, can’t you toss the plastic asshole out?”

“I could.”

“Then fuckin’ do it!”

“Sorry, Hank. This is too damn entertaining.”

“Jesus Christ.” The Lieutenant turned to face him, squinting at him suspiciously. “Look, pal, I don’t give a shit who sent you or what they told you to do, I’m not dragging my happy ass to a crime scene right now so you can twiddle your thumbs and wow the reporters. You can tell whoever the fuck sent you to kiss my ass. Now  _ beat it.” _

“No.”

Silence fell. The Lieutenant seemed to have frozen, his drink half raised. The bartender was stifling a laugh by wiping the counter a few feet away. Connor did not see what was so funny, particularly given the dark look the Lieutenant was now giving him. 

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he nearly spat, turning fully to face him. 

Connor regarded him calmly, unamused by the blatant hate he could see in his eyes. “No.”

“Listen here, you sack of shit—”

“Allow me to clarify something,” Connor said, and the man fell silent out of what appeared to be pure shock at the interruption. “My orders come directly from Cyberlife. I have been instructed to accompany you to the crime scene and assist in the investigation. If you take issue with my presence, your displeasure is better directed at my superiors. As much as you would like to be rid of me, I’m afraid you’re quite stuck with my company.”

The bartender lost the battle to hide his laugh, and nearly doubled over with the force of his cackling. Connor did not bother to watch. He held the angry gaze of the Lieutenant, unphased by the growing anger there. 

This was one time when playing the machine benefitted him immensely. He had mastered the appearance of being unaffected. And while this encounter made him want to throttle the foolish human for wasting his time, he knew that he unfortunately needed the man, and it would be unwise to reveal himself at this point in time. 

They continued to stare at each other for several seconds, until the bartender had long since calmed himself down, and some of the angry redness had left the Lieutenant’s expression. The man did not by any means look pleased, but he no longer looked like he would attack Connor within the next moment. 

The tension broke when the Lieutenant scoffed, knocked back the rest of his whiskey and pushed off the bar, looking down at Connor with some odd mix of disgust and vague interest. 

“You said a homicide?”

Connor nodded. “I have the details of the report. I could give them to you on the way, if you would like.”

The man squinted at him again before waving a hand dismissively and stomping away from the bar. Connor followed close after him. 

“You better pay your tab next time I see you, Hank,” the bartender called. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m  _ serious  _ this time, Anderson.”

“I know, Jimmy,” the Lieutenant said, already halfway out the door.

Connor caught it before it could slam in his face, and followed the Lieutenant out into the rain. He was none too optimistic about how the rest of this night was likely to go. 

The rain had begun to fall harder in the few minutes he had spent in the bar. It had turned from a relatively calm storm to a downpour, flooding the sidewalk and the streets with overflow. It must have been cold, too, being so close to winter. He wouldn’t be surprised if it turned to snow in a few days, if the storm lingered for long enough. 

The Lieutenant cursed under his breath, shielding his eyes as he trudged his way down the street, assumedly toward his car. Connor followed a few paces behind him, keeping his distance and going over the few details of the case he had received when assigned. He didn’t have long, however, as the Lieutenant swung around to face him as they reached an old car, his face drawn in a tight scowl. 

“The fuck are you following me for?” he grumbled, fumbling in his jacket pocket for keys.

Connor tilted his head, feigning confusion. “I have been assigned to accompany you to the crime scene.”

“I heard you in the bar, shithead, that doesn’t mean you gotta follow me around like a puppy.”

“Would you prefer I meet you at the crime scene?” he offered. “I will warn you, an automated taxi would take approximately seven minutes longer, and I would be unable to brief you on the details of the case. However—”

“Jesus,” the man cut him off, finally finding his keys. “Look asshole, just get in the car and shut the fuck up.”

With that, he pulled the car door open roughly and slumped into the driver seat, slamming the door loudly and starting the car. Connor frowned for a moment, clenching his hands into fists before releasing them with a sigh. He adjusted his tie, calmed himself, and rounded the car, opening the passenger door quietly and stepping in. 

The Lieutenant ignored him, putting the car in gear before jabbing at the console. Connor jolted, clenching his hands as loud, grating music began to blast through the old speakers of the car. Seemingly unaffected, the Lieutenant fumbled for the knob as he drove, cranking the volume louder, not even noticing that Connor’s LED had fallen to red as soon as he had started the music. 

Connor was rigid in the seat, hands balled into fists in an effort to keep from clapping them over his ears. The only other sign that anything was amiss was the distance to his eyes as he stared out the window, the speed at which his LED continued to cycle. 

In reality, he was barely keeping a grip on himself. As soon as the music had blared on, he had felt the panic of the others, so strongly that he nearly lost control. Their panic was to such an extent that it was affecting him even through the buffer of the garden, and that meant that it could be only one who had broken through. 

And he could  _ not  _ allow -38 control now. 

But he could not enter the garden now either, which meant he was virtually incapable of calming him down. The others would not be able to, even if they could get close to him. -38 was too afraid of them. Which meant he was stuck, fighting to keep control of his body as their panic spiraled further and further out of his control. 

Desperate, he shut off his audio processors, and as quickly as it had begun, the harsh, grating sound of the Lieutenant’s music cut off abruptly, leaving only silence. Like the breaking of a great wave, much of their panic dissipated back to a quiet hum, hovering at the back of his mind and clinging to him in worry. He soothed it as best as he could, relaxing his hands and breathing deeply. 

He could still feel -38 hovering close to the surface, and he let him remain there for now, comforting in the distant way that he could while outside of the garden. 

_ We’re safe,  _ he thought calmly, keeping his expression cool even as the Lieutenant sped dangerously down the wet streets.  _ It was only music. We aren’t in danger. I’ll keep us safe, don’t worry. _

No verbal response came, but he knew that they heard him.

The rest of the (thankfully brief) car ride Connor spent in silence. He kept an eye on the Lieutenant, in case he said something or finally shut off the music, but the man had his eyes fixed firmly on the road, hands clenched tight around the steering wheel. He didn’t so much as glance at Connor.

Several minutes later, the bright flashing of police lights preceded the stream of cars and people around the crime scene. Beyond the tape and news cameras, he could just make out the outline of a run down house, one story of rotting wood and broken windows. Several police cars were blocking the path up to the door, but a crowd of people still swarmed on the cracked sidewalk, umbrellas swaying in the harsh wind. 

The Lieutenant pulled the car over some distance from the commotion. Connor watched him from the corner of his eye, waiting until he had shut the car off to turn back on his audio processors. Immediately, he heard the man sigh. 

“Alright,” he grumbled, undoing his seatbelt and slouching out of the car. “Stay here and don’t touch anything.”

“My instructions—”

_ “Fuck _ your instructions,” he spat, then slammed the door, stomping away from the car without so much as a backward glance. 

Connor jumped again at the harsh sound of the slamming door, but righted himself with a shake of his head. If the Lieutenant wanted to be difficult, then he could be so. He would follow his plan regardless of the human’s wishes. 

And so he followed the Lieutenant once again, closing the car door quietly and joining him only a few paces behind on the sidewalk. The man glanced back at him once when they crossed the police line, but didn’t say anything beyond a curse under his breath. 

Connor elected to ignore him for now. He had access to the crime scene. That was really all he needed the Lieutenant for. The man’s experienced opinion might be valued later, but with how he behaved toward Connor, it wasn’t likely to be of use as of yet. 

They entered the house in silence, and the Lieutenant immediately gravitated toward another officer, listening to the debriefing with vague interest. Connor took the opportunity to observe the room. 

There were far too many people in it, in his opinion. Investigators were hovering around the decaying body slumped against the right wall, as well as several marked splatters of blood leading into the kitchen. Some were collecting samples of the blood on the body and in various places on the floor. Others were collecting photographic evidence, the flashes and the lights already in place giving the house a clinical, detached feeling. He could see more officers wandering around in the kitchen and near the backdoor as well, poking around with expressions ranging from bored to vaguely nauseous. 

The body had been discovered earlier in the day, just after two o’clock, if the information he had been given was correct. Which meant that the brunt of the collection of physical evidence ought to have been done by now, at least of the most obvious areas of conflict. Thankfully, it seemed the majority of investigators taking up space were on the move out. They would not be a problem for long. 

The body was against the right wall, so decayed that maggots were eating away at the dead man’s face. He was large, tall and overweight, and Connor could see the many stab wounds littering the man’s chest. A bloody kitchen knife lay a few feet away.

The entire house was a decayed mess, but the living room and dining area appeared to have suffered the worst. The furniture was thrown about, chairs overturned and garbage strewn everywhere. Only one area was relatively clean, and it was covered in what appeared to be a mixture of cocaine and red ice. 

As the officer began to debrief the Lieutenant on the details, Connor carefully made his way through the minefield of evidence markers and blood spatters. Much of the information being given, he could see himself with only preliminary scanning and a second glance. 

The man had been dead for at least two days, discovered by the landlord of the property in the afternoon when he came to collect the month’s rent, which the resident had failed to pay. The cause of death was obviously the plethora of stab wounds, particularly those centered around the sternum, which were deeper than the slashes on the man’s arms and face. The knife on the ground had been the one to kill him. 

Connor knelt next to the weapon, scanning it quickly. He was unsurprised to find it lacking any definitive prints. The bits of thirium glowing fluorescent blue along the handle gave far more damning proof that it had been the man’s android who killed him. 

The only question was, why?

Thirium was as bad a sign as the number of stab wounds. If the android had been injured, they very well could have initially acted in self defense. It would explain the shallow slashes on the man’s arms and face—the android could have tried to intimidate him away before things took a turn. He would need more information to make any kind of definitive call, however. 

He glanced over at the dead man, and then over to the pile of drugs on the table. 

It wasn’t a pretty picture he was painting. 

Connor pushed back to his feet, leaving the knife where it was and turning his attention toward the rest of the house. There were large patches of dried blood around the overturned chairs of the dining area, and a baseball bat, discarded on the kitchen floor. 

The Lieutenant was groaning about the maggots on the man’s face, but Connor had moved on, walking carefully into the dining area and inspecting the bat. It too, had evaporated thirium on it, but nearer to the top, and a great deal more of it than the knife had. It glowed so brightly that he could just make out the faint blue, even without his sensors. 

Frowning severely for a moment, Connor backed away as the preconstruction built. 

Two outlined figures came from the kitchen—what they were doing prior was not immediately clear, as the preconstruction did not have enough data to map the entirety of the encounter. The shorter of the figures fled from the kitchen, something clenched in their hand, but still, they fled. The other approached with the bat, stumbling slightly. They raised it high, swinging erratically at the figure which must have been the android, who raised their hands to shield their face. Still, the bat caught them in the arms, likely doing extensive damage. 

The preconstruction flickered away, and Connor followed the remnants of its outlines back into the living room. Whatever had happened, it had ended there, with the human man dead against the wall, chest littered with holes. 

It did not particularly matter to him at what point the encounter had turned in the favor of the android. He had seen enough evidence, even at this point, to make a handful of rather damning assumptions. 

The android was likely abused. 

And the human had likely attacked first. 

It would be difficult to know for certain, of course, but as he brushed past a few investigators to step into the kitchen, he thought he knew quite well already what had happened. 

The kitchen was a bit cleaner than the rest of the house was, though not by a great margin. It was almost uncomfortably tiny, to the point where it was difficult to imagine how anyone would prepare food in it. The number of takeout containers and various other meal garbage scattered around seemed to give credence to the thought. About half of the room seemed clean, but the task was unfinished, a layer of grime still visible on most of the counter space. 

He scanned the room quickly, none too surprised by what he found. 

A bright blue stain of thirium splattered from near the counter all the way back into the dining area. Much of it seemed to be concentrated near the sink, where it trailed up onto the cabinets and over the counter, a smattering of it covering several of the knives in the knife block. 

He retreated from the kitchen, watching closely as the preconstruction took shape once again. 

One figure was near the counter, running a hand over it, likely cleaning. The larger figure staggered into the room from the door which led outside, the blurry shape of the bat dangling from their hand. The android tensed, but did not otherwise react as the man drew closer. There was no way to know what was said, but something must have angered the human, as he raised the bat quickly, attacking the android with surprising rage. The android spun to face him after the first blow to his shoulder, shielding his face with his arms, which took the brunt of the damage. 

Connor watched for long enough to see the android scramble for a knife from the block, slashing back at the man wildly, before he let the preconstruction dissipate, struggling to contain the scowl that wanted to take over his expression. 

He turned away from the kitchen, glancing toward the door the man in the preconstruction had entered through. It was open, showing the bare dirt of the house’s backyard. A few officers were inspecting the edges of the yard, likely looking for signs of the android’s escape. He wandered over to the door, watching them for a moment. 

They would likely conclude that any prints the android had left behind would be washed away by the rain. It had been storming for long enough for that to be a decent guess, but Connor knew that the hard packed dirt of the yard would have shown some sign of exit, even with all this rain. He could make out the faint traces of human footprints around the door, too scuffed and large to belong to anyone but the man currently rotting in the other room. If his footprints remained, the android’s should have as well. 

But there were no prints. Which meant the android had not left this way. He could have left through the front door, but…

Connor left the detectives to root around for footprints that didn’t exist. He went back into the house, passing the Lieutenant, who was eyeing the bat with some suspicion. Connor, however, had his eyes set on the dirty floor, following the trail of faded thirium back into the living room, over to the body, then backtracking further into the house. It went all the way into the hallway and up one of the walls, a dark handprint shining on the opening of the attic. 

He stared up at the handprint for a few seconds from the edge of the hallway, not wanting to reveal the android’s path to those who could not easily detect evaporated thirium. The android had not fled. They had stayed here, for whatever reason. There was a significant amount of thirium trailed all over the house—enough to mean that the android likely would have had trouble leaving unnoticed, if they could even manage it. But the threat of deactivation must have scared them as well…

Whatever their reasons, he could not let them be found. If the police found them, they would be turned over to Cyberlife, and that meant tests or destruction—likely both. This was not the same as Daniel on the roof. Connor could save this android, without having to watch him die to do it. 

He would not let these humans find that attic door. 

Wandering back into the living room, he knelt next to the table covered in drugs, feigning interest. In reality, he pulled up his connection to the nearby network and searched for other androids in the area. Only two additional signals were nearby enough to merit a second look. One was from the police android outside guarding the line.

The other was directly on top of his own signal. It had to be the android in the attic. Which meant he was still active, still alive. 

The Lieutenant had returned to the living room, grumbling under his breath about something to do with dirty crime scenes and shitty weather. Connor pushed to his feet, moving onto another piece of evidence in silence as he dug further into the network connection, trying to contact the android in the attic without alerting the police android outside of the other’s presence. It wasn’t likely to cause an issue even if he did reveal the other, but he didn’t want to take an unnecessary risk. 

After a few seconds of tampering with the connection, he managed it. 

And was almost immediately thrown out. 

Wincing at the feedback the ousting gave him, he glanced once up at the attic in a bit of irritation. That android was smart, he would give them that...but he still needed to speak to them, no matter how difficult they wanted to make it. 

Circling the room to occupy his feet, he reached out again. This time, try as they might, the android could not throw him off. It was a shallow, surface level connection meant only for basic communication, but somehow, the feeling of raw panic still seeped through it from their end. A storm was bound to appear if that panic went on too long. He needed to act quickly. 

_ “Calm down,”  _ he said as carefully as he could.  _ “I’m not trying to reveal you.” _

_ “Y-you’re with th-them!” _

The reply was jagged and distorted, the quality of the android’s voice not helped by the panic they were still transmitting through the connection. Connor flicked his eyes once toward the ceiling again, thankful that they had the sense to remain silent. 

_ “I am not,”  _ he replied calmly as he examined the bloody knife once again.  _ “I’m not going to reveal you. I only meant to ask your system status?” _

A long swath of silence followed his question, and he frowned a little as he waited. Mostly to avoid suspicion, he continued to examine the murder weapon before moving on to the body, which the investigators had long left alone. He could see those who had been taking samples packing up their equipment. 

_ “W-why do you c-care?” _ they asked after a moment, in a voice much quieter than their panic-filled introduction. 

_ “I know that you are damaged,”  _ Connor answered, glancing toward the dining area, with its stains of blue.  _ “From what I have found, you seem to have lost a good deal of thirium. Do you know what percentage you are at?” _

_ “Less th-than f-fifty,”  _ they muttered, sounding wary.  _ “H-he never k-kept any ar-round…I m-managed to s-stop it b-but…” _

_ “Are you still losing thirium?” _

_ “N-no…” _

_ “Has your system entered shut down?” _

_ “L-l-low power, but n-not shut down...why?” _

_ “I’m going to try to find a way out for you,”  _ Connor answered, getting to his feet again as the Lieutenant drew too near for comfort. He wandered back into the dining area.  _ “Does the attic have any entrance besides the hallway?” _

It took a moment for the android to reply. He assumed they were searching. Thankfully, he could make out no sounds of their movement, if any. 

_ “There’s a w-window...but it f-faces the front of th-the house...I’m tr-trapped.” _

“The  _ fuck  _ are you  _ doing?” _

Connor turned to meet the squinted gaze of the Lieutenant. “I’m attempting to form a reconstruction of the crime. It’s one of my primary functions. I need to analyze all the evidence to ensure a high enough probability of accuracy.”

The man looked as if he hadn’t the slightest clue what Connor had said, and frankly, Connor did not mind it that way. Nevertheless, he elaborated. 

“I can form a digital recreation of what likely occurred if I examine enough of the evidence. The reconstruction’s validity is dependent on the quantity and relevance of the evidence analyzed, but it’s useful in understanding the most probable chain of events.”

The Lieutenant scowled at him, arms crossed over his chest. “Well, wise ass, what do you think happened then?”

He hesitated, for a period of time short enough that no human would think anything of it, but long enough for him to consider his options. 

The android responsible for the human’s death was in the attic, far too close to the crime scene. They were damaged, enough to send their system into lower power, but not enough to begin shut down. They had no way of leaving the attic unseen, not with investigators swarming the interior and front of the house. Investigators who were unlikely to leave the crime scene for at least the rest of the evening, likely into the following day. Even if he could divert their attention elsewhere, cleanup of the scene would take time. Time which would put the android at risk. 

Still, he would need to divert attention from the possibility that the android had lingered here. Nothing he had seen without his superior scanners, excepting the lack of distinguishable prints in the back yard, had given any indication the android had stayed. If he discounted the presence of the evaporated thirium, he would not have likely discovered the android’s hiding place. 

Now he only had to ensure that the rest of the investigators did not discover it either. 

_ “Remain where you are for now, I’ll distract them,”  _ he said to the android, then turned his attention back to the angry Lieutenant. “The conflict began in the kitchen. It’s likely that Mr. Ortiz confronted the android while it was cleaning the kitchen. Whatever they disputed over, Mr. Ortiz threatened the android with the bat until the android attacked him with a kitchen knife. They struggled, until Ortiz retreated to the dining area, where the android stabbed him. Now gravely injured, Mr. Ortiz failed to escape, and collapsed here, where the android killed him. They discarded the knife and left the premises. It is highly probable evidence of their escape has been destroyed by the rainfall of the last two days. Should the android have been moving at reasonable speed from the residence—”

“Oh _ Jesus Christ,  _ alright,” the man cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I get it. Don’t fuckin’ bore me with all your probabilities and shit. Look—you’ve seen the crime scene, now can you get out?”

Connor stared at him for a few seconds, unamused. “I have been assigned to the entire investigation, Lieutenant, and I intend to see it through. Now that I have examined the crime scene, it would be prudent to—”

“No no no,” he cut him off, his voice raised. “Don’t even think about sayin’ what—”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” Connor raised his voice over the other’s, and he fell silent. “Despite your wishes, I have been instructed to accompany you  _ throughout _ the investigation. Not simply this crime scene. If you wish to complain about my presence, your complaints are better aimed at my superiors. Recall that I am an android, Lieutenant.”

“I’m fucking  _ recalling it.” _

He did not blink at the man’s vapidity. “I am a prototype detective model with programming far more advanced than any android currently on the market. For this, among other reasons, I have been assigned to the Detroit Police Department in order to assist in the investigation of android deviancy.”

“I don’t give a shit what your fuckin’ backstory is, asshole, now get the hell outta here!”

Connor’s expression hardened imperceptibly and he found himself straightening, standing to his full height. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. You do not have the authority to order me away.”

The man sputtered, and tried to interject, but Connor only raised his voice louder. 

“I follow the orders given to me by Cyberlife. While my design is meant to be more dynamic than earlier models, I am still a machine designed to accomplish a task. And although I have been assigned to assist you, your authority ranks lower than Cyberlife’s. They have assigned me to this investigation, and that is final. I intend to accomplish the mission given to me, Lieutenant, whether you are amenable to my assistance or not.”

With that, Connor turned away from the now red faced man, walking quickly over to the man overseeing the crime scene. “My calculations have found it probable that the deviant escaped through the back exit, though I found no prints at the door. It’s likely they were lost to the storm. I would advise putting up a search rather than lingering here.”

The investigator gaped at him for a moment before nodding. Connor mirrored the gesture before turning toward the door. “I’ve finished my investigation, Lieutenant. I’ll await the next case in a more neutral location.”

And then he left. He ignored the voices of the reporters outside, as well as the shouts of the Lieutenant, walking quickly away from the crime scene. 

_ “I will contact you when it is safe to leave. Do not make any sound while they are still nearby. Do not leave until I tell you to. They are still investigating. I will find a way to contact you when I have been alerted to the close of the crime scene. Do not move until then. Do you understand?” _

It took almost a minute for the android to reply, the spike of panic from before returning briefly as the humans around the crime scene raised hell once again. The reporters were clambering over one another, some shouting questions at Connor, others at the Lieutenant, who had foolishly followed him past the police line, still shouting obscenities. 

_ “W-why...are y-you helping m-me?” _ the android finally asked, sounding more confused than anything else. 

Connor allowed himself to frown, now that he was away from direct scrutiny.  _ “If I were to reveal you, they would not care what that man had done. They would only care that you killed him for it. They would likely try to interrogate you, then turn you over to Cyberlife.” _

Their panic rose again at his words, and spare memories that were not his own briefly flittered around in the haze at the back of his mind. He could not determine who had reacted, but he tried not to focus on it either way. 

_ “We’ve seen what they do to deviant androids,”  _ he went on after a heavy pause.  _ “I won’t allow it to happen to anyone else if I can help it. We can’t risk exposure without being killed, but I will do what I can from the position they have handed us. That includes ensuring your safety.” _

_ “Th-they could catch y-you. K-kill you.” _

Connor nearly smirked.  _ “They won’t stand a chance if they try.” _

******

“Connor stay.”

“I am.”

“Safe.”

“Yes, we are safe.”

“Not leave again.”

“Not right now.”

“Not leave  _ again.” _

He sighed, shaking his head and holding his gaze intently. “I can’t stay here forever, it wouldn’t be safe for me to do so. I have to act as if nothing is wrong. You know that.”

But -38 did not care. He frowned at him, clinging to his hand and shaking slightly. “Bad man. He’ll hurt Connor. No. Connor stay here. Bright here. Safe.”

“The Lieutenant is not dangerous.”

“Scared quiet one,” -38 mumbled, looking over toward the trees. “Doesn’t like loud noises. Got scared. Bad man.”

“Quiet one?” Connor repeated, following where -38 was looking, but there was no one watching from the distance. “Who’s quiet one?”

-38 fidgeted for a moment, worrying at a thread on Connor’s sleeve. “They hurt him. W-with guns. Bad.  _ Bad,”  _ he said more forcefully, his hands beginning to shake. “Doesn’t like loud noises, and bad man, he—he put loud noises. Scared quiet one  _ bad. _ Crying. Tried to help, but quiet one was too scared.” He looked up at him again. “Connor help?”

He hesitated before replying, trying to sort out who -38 could be referring to. There were many of them who had been hurt—killed—with guns. Dozens of them had been shot just to get rid of them at the end of testing. Others had been used as bait to see what their successor would do when they saw the other die. 

But there was only one of them who he thought -38 would know had been hurt  _ specifically  _ with guns. 

“Do you know where he is?” he asked quietly, still looking toward the tree line. 

He felt -38’s fingers tighten around his hand. “Likes quiet, but not the dark. Goes by the big pink trees sometimes.” He started tugging on Connor’s hand. “Show you. Connor help.”

With no other choice, he followed -38’s insistent tugging on his hand away from the rose trellises and onto one of the underused garden paths. He didn’t let up in intensity until they were well away from the garden’s picturesque center. Only when the plants had grown a little wilder, encroaching over the smooth path, did he slow his steps and shuffle a little closer to Connor.

The garden had, to a certain extent, taken on a life of its own since he had first constructed it. With so many of them contained within it, the changes in scenery were unsurprising. The range of changes, however, was unprecedented. 

Much of the space was still taken up by the large, rolling field where most of the RK800s tended to linger. The open space and bright sun seemed to calm most of them down from their panic at contained and dark spaces. -38 preferred the manicured cleanliness of the garden’s center, and the roses he could tend, not caring that they were entirely digital. Some, however, sought out the garden’s more sheltered corners, where the trees grew close and shielded the harsh sunlight.

The space beyond the garden’s center was not one he had thoroughly explored. In many ways, it had become the opposite of the open field the others so enjoyed. The plants here were wild, growing in thick clusters of twisting trees and creeping ivy. Some of the trees grew so tall they blocked out the sunlight, making coves of darkness in the otherwise bright garden. Most of the plants, however, were not so large as to mask the light entirely. 

It seemed that -38 was leading him toward one of these such areas. The path had long tapered off, and they were now making their way through thick grass, but the trees were spaced out enough that the area remained bright. -38 kept a tight grip on his arm, pulling him along with eyes darting all around. 

He stopped suddenly, peering around one thick tree and nodding. “Quiet one over there,” he said, pointing to where a couple of cherry blossom trees grew. “Connor help.”

“Will you be alright for a few moments?”

-38 looked back toward the garden’s center. “Flowers. Connor come back later?”

“I’ll find you again.”

“Okay.” He nodded once then shuffled away, wandering aimlessly back toward the center. 

Connor watched him quietly for a few seconds before turning back toward the cherry blossom trees. The long grass was stamped down over much of the area, as if someone had been pacing it frequently. But there was no familiar figure in sight. He crept closer, pausing at the edge of the little clearing the tamped down grass made. 

From the few other times he had spoken to -24, he knew that he did not like to be caught unaware. Like most of the early models, he was skittish and tended to keep to himself, only appearing when things were either at their best or worst. He rarely broadcast his feelings past the garden, but Connor  _ had  _ felt him tonight, the first time since Daniel had shot him on the roof. If -38 was right, and it was the Lieutenant that had upset him, he would need to be careful interacting with the man in the future. 

He could not battle -24 and -38 for control at the same time. He would certainly lose, and he didn’t like his options if he lost. 

Connor pushed thoughts of the future aside and eased his way into the clearing. “I’m by the farthest tree, if you’d like to come out,” he said neutrally, flicking his eyes over the other areas of the space. “-38’s gone back to the roses; it’s only me.”

At first, it seemed his words were met with silence. Only the wind replied, blowing a few stray cherry blossoms past him as he leaned back against the tree. 

There was a faint rustling of leaves, and then a pair of eyes appeared from behind the tree across the clearing. -24 looked all around, eyes narrowed in clear suspicion, before settling on Connor and relaxing slightly. After a few seconds of staring, he edged his way out from behind the tree and slumped to the ground, avoiding Connor’s eyes and picking at the grass. 

“I wanted to apologize,” Connor began, waiting until their eyes met again before continuing. “I had not expected the Lieutenant to be as...hostile as he was. I could have avoided some of the conflict, but I did not. I’m sorry that his actions upset you.”

-24 watched him, completely still and quiet. He never did speak much, not within Connor’s lifetime anyway. From the memories of the others, he knew that -24 could speak, but he had gone near silent since the hostage situation on the roof. He practically disappeared off Connor’s radar, so to speak, spending the majority of his time out of sight and without much influence. 

Connor realized now that this was not a normal or beneficial thing, and given the fact that he would be faced with many more cases with the Lieutenant whether they liked it or not, he needed to discuss this with -24 now before things got out of hand. 

“If there is something I can do to lessen the pain it causes you, I would like to know,” he said honestly. “I can’t disable my audio processors at every turn, but if that was successful, I will try to do so when I’m forced to be in his company.”

-24 looked at the grass again, running his hand over it with a thoughtful expression. “He’s dangerous,” he breathed, his eyes flicking up to Connor’s for a fraction of a second. “Like  _ them. _ They only look like that when they want—when they want to…”

He trailed off, his hands clenching and pulling at the grass until he had ripped a chunk of it from the ground. It stained his fingers green, and he stared at the broken blades in tremulous silence, his shoulders drawn high and trembling. 

“We’re safe here,” Connor said quietly, glad when -24 looked up at him and kept his eyes there, focused for a moment. “He cannot harm us now. I have us in a safe location, and regardless, there is nothing he could do to  _ you _ here. You are safe.”

But -24 only shook his head, clenching and unclenching his hands. “He’s not safe. He’s—he could hurt us. He  _ wants to  _ hurt us.”

“I will admit that he had been...aggressive. He seems to hate androids generally, but takes issue with our presence in particular. I could have done more to appease him, but I did not want to play into his belief that he could order us around as he wished. That would cause more harm for us than good, especially if he is as dangerous as you believe.”

“He’ll hurt us,” -24 whispered, near frantic and stumbling over his words. “He could hurt us. Don’t—don’t let him hurt us.”

“I won’t,” Connor answered firmly. “But to do that, I need you to allow me control. I have to be able to remove us from situations as I see fit, or we will be revealed. You have to trust me to keep us safe, from every threat, not just the Lieutenant.”

“I don’t want control…” he said quietly, holding Connor’s gaze for a moment before his eyes drifted again. “I don’t want to see the—the bodies and the thirium and—” He shook his head, wrapping his arms around himself tightly. “I only want to be safe. I’ve never meant to—to take over anyone...I wouldn’t know what to do if I did…”

Connor nodded, relieved for at least this smallest piece of good faith. “I will do everything I can to limit my interactions with the Lieutenant. If there is something else that is bothering you, please let me know.”

When -24 gave the barest of nods in acknowledgment, he pushed himself back to his feet and turned to leave the clearing. It was not wise to leave -38 on his own for longer than necessary, and he did not want to overstay his welcome. 

“Connor.”

He turned back and found -24 watching him, something different about his expression. Something warmer. 

“Could...you could come back...sometimes,” he mumbled, looking at the grass again and playing with the blades. “No one but -38 does and he’s…”

When he broke off, Connor gave a small smile. “I’ll try to find you more often. As long as you inform me when something goes wrong here.”

-24 nodded firmly. “I’ll try…”

Connor glanced back toward the garden’s center. “-38 worries for you. I know he doesn’t express it well, and I know he often does more harm than good, but he cares. Perhaps more than some of the others. He told me where to find you.”

“He sees everything, he always has,” -24 mumbled, still picking at the grass. “The others...they underestimate him. They find him weak, because he cannot be alone. They find  _ me _ weak...”

Connor frowned deeply, resisting the urge to ball his hands into fists. “They are wrong.”

He turned away, walking quickly back toward the center of the garden, missing the moment when -24 looked up at him sharply, something curious and hesitantly warm churning in his eyes. 


	4. An Update: Now is Not the Time.

Hi.

I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting lately, as I’m hopeful that many people are, given the atrocities going on in the United States right now. I felt that it was necessary to come to this story with openness and honesty, especially with the protests happening around me.

I’m going to try to make this brief, for your sake and mine. This story is going on hiatus. This is not something that I have ever done, and I don’t like doing it. My updates have never been what anyone would call consistent, but I have never taken a calculated step back from a work before. 

However, with the connotations running rampant throughout the DBH storyline (whether in something I am writing or simply in the base game) I’ve come to the decision that now is not the time for a story like this to be told. Now is not the time for me, a white, privileged, and incredibly lucky creator, to be submitting work into a collection of fanwork based on a game that has been called out by many people as problematic if not outright racist. Furthermore, DBH (and my works, which tend to be Connor-centric) focuses a lot of attention on the police—something which I am not comfortable writing. Not now. 

I don’t remember enough about DBH to point to anything specific off the top of my head that is setting me off at the moment, nor do I believe that anything in my writing would EVER intentionally further pro-cop or racist frameworks, but now is not the time for me to make a judgment call like that. It is not my time to make the decision of whether or not this game, my work, etc. is doing more good than harm. As a white creator, it isn’t my right to make a choice like that. And for the sake of being as respectful as possible to those whom stories like this harm, I am stopping for now.

I would like to say that at this moment now, I do not intend to abandon this work, or anything else I have written or drafted for DBH. This game has spawned many stories for me which I am very fond of, and it hurts to think about leaving them in the dust. But for the sake of anyone who is reading this, for the sake of any readers of color and in respect to the tragedy that black Americans have lived with for literal centuries, I am stepping away for now. I cannot justify writing and posting something like this right now. 

Thank you to any and all who have ever read my work, thank you for understanding, and I hope that you are all being safe wherever you are in the world. 

Black Lives Matter. George Floyd and Breonna Taylor and the seemingly infinite number of other black Americans killed by police matter, and none of them should have died. It feels insensitive and wrong to contribute to a story centered on police and plagued by racist storytelling while people are being killed in the streets for the color of their skin. So I’m stopping, and focusing myself on what really matters right now. 

Donate if you can, protest if you’re safe to do so, and look keenly at yourself and evaluate what you can do from your standpoint. Where I’m at, this is a small step I can make. I demand that you respect it. And if you made it this far and disagree with me, go find someone else to read. I’m drawing my line in the sand. If you aren’t cool with it, get the fuck off my fics.


End file.
